


A Thief's Life

by FantasyBard



Series: A Thief's Life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyBard/pseuds/FantasyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murder is strange. Murder is especially strange when it appears to be suicide. When multiple dead bodies appear all over London, even Scotland Yard's best are baffled by the cause.</p>
<p>The events of murder probably wouldn't have come to the attention of either Brenna Ryan or John Watson. However, when the one is in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes and the other happens to find himself sharing a flat with the Consulting Detective, the two are involved whether or not the particularly want to be. </p>
<p>Truth to be told, there is not a lot that separates love and friendship from murder. The difference could be best described as simple as that of life and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Day in the Life

Chapter 1: A Day in the Life

By all outward signs, Brenna Ryan was a perfectly ordinary young woman. She worked at Scotland Yard in the White Collar Division. The cases which came through the division included art theft, insurance scams, and fraud. Brenna was especially gifted in cases of this nature, which was why she was such a great asset to them. She had an uncanny knack for finding a missing link in a case that no one else was able to see. Her experience made her invaluable to the White Collar unit or so she liked to think.

Like most other, normal people, Brenna had a life outside of her day job. She had a beagle named Lily, who was always there to welcome her home. She was also an amateur artist, with painting and sketching taking up a good deal of her time when she was not in the White Collar office. Indeed, on many of her walks with Lily throughout the parks of London with Lily, she would often find herself pausing to take a quick sketch of something which had caught her attention, whether it was something as minute as the way the sunlight was hitting a leaf, or as vast as the fog encircling Westminster Abbey.

Brenna also did not possess the kind of looks that people would have called stunning. Her hair was dark blond in color, with light green eyes and a dusting of freckles over her cheeks and nose. There was nothing about her which really made her stand out amidst the crowds of people which walked the pavement every day. In a way, she almost preferred it that way; being unmemorable could sometimes be an advantage, if one knew how to use it properly. And over the years, she had learned that where looks failed to entice, personality had to take over.

So, by all appearance, Brenna was a perfectly normal person, living in London. But then again, appearances could be quite deceiving. In fact, Brenna was as far from normal as could be imagined. There was a reason why she knew so much about white collar crimes: she had committed many of them herself.

Once, in another life, Brenna had been a criminal. She had been a thief and a forger, and she had been good at it, leaving a trail of crimes behind her across Europe. For four years, she had kept the authorities on a chase. Brenna had simply been too good to be caught. But, two-and-a-half years before, that had all changed. Brenna had become tired of running and she had had wanted it to end.

Detective Inspector Alice Bennett, the head of Scotland Yard's White Collar Division, had been one of the many agents of law enforcement who had chased Brenna over the years, and she had proven to be the most astute and persistent of her pursuers. More then a few times, Brenna had been close to getting caught by her. Because of this, Brenna had acquired a grudging respect for Alice, a feeling which proved to be mutual. In the end, Alice had been the only one who Brenna would surrender to.

There were many crimes which Brenna was suspected of having committed, but it turned out that forgery was the only crime that she could be charged conclusively with. She had been resigned to spending five years in prison. But then, the very person who had arrested her, had been the one to offer her a release. Alice had come to her in prison, saying that she was prepared to make a deal: Brenna could get out, but she would have to help the Yard track down criminals like her, people who were often guilty of far more serious things than just stealing a valuable painting. She would also have to wear a tracking anklet that would track her movements. If she proved that she could become a functioning member of society again, there might be a chance that she could be free. However, any attempt to run and she would be back in prison, with no chance of getting out for a very long time.

Brenna had not needed a lot of incentive. Being cooped up in a prison was not her style, and she gladly took the anklet for the chance at being free.

And so had started a very unlikely, and yet strangely successful partnership. Alice and Brenna found that they worked surprisingly well together, and it hadn't been long before the two of them had become friends. Alice was something of a legend in the Police force. Possessed of an indomitable will and a fierce devotion to her calling, people quickly learned never to get on her bad side. She could be frightening, especially when she turned that gray-eyed stare on people who displeased her. Intimidation was further compounded by Alice's height of 5'9".

She could sometimes be exacting and stern with her team. However, for those who had earned her trust, she was fiercely protective. Brenna quickly fell under her protection, and Alice's reputation was such that no one ever thought to openly question her sanity about allowing Brenna to work with her.

It was always Brenna that the questioning glances followed. There were few people who trusted Brenna in the Police Department. It was hardly surprising, though. Their whole careers and lives were built around keeping criminals off the streets, not free to roam. Granted, Brenna had never killed or even harmed another person during her thefts. But, she had still broken the law. Having a criminal like herself in their midst couldn't have been an easy thing to accept, and most of them didn't. The most she ever got from most of the men and women on the police force were cold silences or curt replies. Over time, Brenna had steeled herself to these reactions. If she was going to get them anyway, she refused to let them bring her down.

This was Brenna's life, and despite struggling with the consequences of her past, she found that she wouldn't have traded where she was now, for anything in the world.

It was on one such ordinary day in her life, around 5:30, when Brenna was finishing up the report on the latest case that she and Alice had solved, when her phone buzzed. When she looked down at who was sending her the text, she didn't know whether to be annoyed or excited. True, a call from him always broke up the regular routine of the day, but then again, it could also lead to nothing but trouble. It was only fitting, though; only someone like her would have been able to have a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

She briefly wondered if she should ignore the text, but then thought better of it. Sherlock was most likely madly excited or dreadfully bored. Ignoring him in either circumstance wouldn't be smart.

**What are you doing? SH**

**I'm working, Sherlock. BR**

**Boring. SH**

**Of course you think it's boring. You think almost everything is boring that doesn't involve dead bodies. BR**

**Which there have an appalling lack of recently, except for those suicides, which Lestrade isn't letting me get near. SH**

**Poor baby. Have you had your moan now? I need to get back to work. BR**

**You're not working right now, and I'm not moaning. SH**

**Yes, you are and what makes you think I'm not working? BR**

**The very fact that you're taking time out of your busy schedule to text with me shows that you must be at a good stopping place. You also just got off a case, and you always try to get the reports out of the way because you find the paperwork boring. It's also nearly 5:30, and since I'm picking you up at 6:00, you want to be done as soon as you can. It's obvious. SH**

Brenna frowned, and then looked at her computer screen. She really did have only a paragraph left, so Sherlock had been right again, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. She finished the report before returning back to her text conversation. **Wrong on all counts. BR**

**You took two minutes to type the last paragraph. SH**

**I'm not going to answer that. Just why are you texting me, Sherlock? BR**

**I told you, I'm bored. SH**

**Which no doubt means you want me to help you stir up some sort of mayhem. BR**

**It's not mayhem. I want you to help me give Lestrade a wake up call. SH**

**By doing what, exactly? BR**

Sherlock managed to explain that Lestrade was holding a press conference regarding the string of suspicious suicides that had been occurring across London over the past few months. There had been three bodies so far, all of them turning up in remote areas, dead from some sort of poison that they had taken voluntarily. Naturally, this was all more than a little suspicious and the public, being what they were, were starting to get a little restless. Lestrade was using the press conference to try and calm the ignorant masses, to use Sherlock's phrasing.

Brenna already knew Sherlock's feelings on this matter; she had heard it all from him frequently during the last few weeks. What he actually wanted her to do in this instance was another story.

**You want me to help you text the word 'wrong' to the cell phones of everyone at the press conference, at the same time? BR**

**I did just tell you that, didn't I? SH**

**I know I'm going to regret asking this, but why? BR**

**Because Lestrade is on the wrong track, and he will be until he consults me. SH**

Brenna resisted the urge to text back the first thing that came into her head.

**What makes you think I can or even want to help you? BR**

**Sgt. Donavon is giving the press conference with him. SH**

**Would you stop appealing to my lower impulses? BR**

Sherlock was well aware of her dislike for Sgt. Donovan He had used that as leverage on more than one occasion. Of course, it didn't help that she normally didn't need much persuasion to commit mischief where Sgt. Donovan was involved.

**Does that mean you'll help me? SH**

**I think that you already know the answer to that. I'll get you in, but you owe me, Sherlock. BR**

It only took her a few minutes to get past the fire walls and password encrypted safeguards that the Yard had put up. Having gone in and out of the Yard's infrastructure for the past two years, it was no challenge for Brenna to hack into the system.

**You should be free to spam them whenever you wish, Sherlock. BR**

**You're invaluable, Brenna. Be sure and turn on the live feed. I would hate for you to miss the show. SH**

Brenna had to admit that she really didn't want to miss anything either, if only for the sake of seeing Donovan’s reaction. She looked up the live feed of the video conference. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sgt. Sally Donovan had just finished explaining the case of the multiple suicides.

Of course, the press was all over the case, and like hounds on a scent, they were eager to get the juiciest story that they could. They were quite ready to label these mysterious deaths as something other than suicides if it meant that they could get a better account out of it. Namely, labeling them as serial killings.

Lestrade, to his credit, even in the face of their clearly inflammatory questions, still managed to exude some calm. "As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. It's an unusual situation. We've got our best people working on it."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, then all the mobiles in the room went off simultaneously, all of them with a single word on their screens: **Wrong**.

**Why do I get the feeling that you are enjoying this far more than you should? BR**

**Well, it's obvious that he's wrong, isn't it? SH**

**Is it? BR**

This mysterious message caused a furor amongst the reporters and irraitation on the part of Sally Donovan "If you've all got texts, just ignore them."

"It just says wrong." said one puzzled reporter.

"Yes, well, just ignore that." said Sally, who was clearly trying to bring the conference to an end before it could get even more embarrassing. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

The last question asked was whether or not these suicides were the work of a serial killer. The last thing Lestrade wanted was for the public to start panicking about an unseen killer. He knew that the media would be all over this, blowing it all out of proportion merely for the sake of getting a good story. "I know this is a frightening time for people. But all anyone has to do is exercise the proper precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

The mobiles in the room rang with word **Wrong**. Only this time, it seemed that there was a much more ominous tone to it. Brenna also saw that Lestrade received a different text, presumably from Sherlock, one that no doubt ran along the lines of how Lestrade was powerless to solve the case until he consulted him.

The press conference broke up rather ignominiously. No doubt Donovan would start complaining to Lestrade, who would let the whole thing slide. Brenna suspected that it wouldn't be long before Sherlock was brought in on the case.

Of course, she wasn't going to tell Sherlock that.

**You enjoyed that didn't you? BR**

**And you didn't? SH**

Brenna was about to text her reply, when she suddenly saw that Alice Bennett was approaching her desk.

**Look, Sherlock, I'm going to have to let you go. BR**

**Is Bennett coming? SH**

**Yes, I would prefer that she didn't guess that I hacked into the Yard's main frame. BR**

**Why not? It was splendid work. You should take credit for it. SH**

**I'll think about doing that when I don't have a tracking anklet. See you in a few hours, Sherlock. BR**

Before he could say anything else, Brenna hung up, and for good measure, put the phone on silent. She couldn't really afford to have any more of her work taken up by Sherlock, no matter how much she might have enjoyed it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As Brenna was leaving the Yard that evening, she was not surprised to be accosted by Sally Donavon and Philip Anderson, two people who were not exactly fans of her's. It was a danger working in the same building as one's enemies, but in Brenna's case, it could hardly be helped. On the other hand, it was sometimes fun to rile the two of them up.

The two had obviously been waiting to pounce, believing that they would have strength in numbers. "I suppose you think you're quite funny sometimes?" said Sally, as she blocked Brenna's way.

"Good evening, Donavon, Anderson. Me, I'm doing great, thanks for asking."

"Don't get funny with me." snapped Sally, "I know what you and your freak boyfriend were trying to pull earlier today, and it isn't funny."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about." said Brenna, with all the smoothness of an accomplished liar.

"That's not going to work." said Anderson, who had a wide face that Brenna always thought resembled that of a particularly ugly specimen of fish. He also had slightly oily black hair and a disposition that could sour milk in two seconds. "I'm sure that if we went into the records right now, we could find something that would lead back to you in terms of hacking."

"I'm sure that you couldn't, Anderson. Leaving behind a trail is something that no professional does, and I still consider myself a professional, even if I'm on a different side. Of course, this is all so much speculation, isn't it? Tell me, did you think it would just be fun to accuse me on a lark, or do you actually have some sort of evidence to back up your claims?"

The silence that followed this question as well as the surprised looks on their faces indicated that she had caught the two of them off-guard.

And it was into this silence that a new person joined the group, one was most certainly not on the side of Donavon or Anderson. Sherlock Holmes strode up to them, looking for the entire world like he had just happened upon them completely by chance. However, anyone who knew of Sherlock's reputation could be certain that it wasn't as simple as that. Underestimating Sherlock was something that no one ever did.

He was a tall man, with jet black hair and a long, lanky body that always seemed to be full to bursting with pent-up energy. His eyes, a piercing ice blue, saw everything, the smallest detail of any person or situation. It was difficult, if not seemingly impossible to put anything past Sherlock. That was why he was a rather amazing individual, and also a rather disturbing one at the same time.

Sherlock was incredibly perceptive, and undeniably brilliant. No one solved crimes like he did, which was why Lestrade was so willing to put up with all his oddities, and oddities there were plenty of. Indeed, oddities would have been to tame a term at times. Oftentimes, Sherlock was cold and detached, analytical to the point where he seemed devoid of all emotion. He had no sort of filter, blurting out the first thing which came to mind. In doing so, he often broke the simplest rules of decorum.

Yet, he had somehow caught Brenna's attention, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Those who questioned Sherlock's ability to love, or even feel anything remotely resembling affection, were astonished that this relationship was still going on after six months. But Sherlock remained a more than visible presence in the life of the former thief. Not only could he not leave her alone, he had become incredibly protective of her.

The state of affairs between Sherlock and Brenna had not endeared either of them anymore to most people on the police force. If anything, it had made them more antagonistic. That was the present case, as Sherlock's presence only increased the tension. There was little love lost between Sherlock and the pair of Donavon and Anderson in the first place. Sherlock had clearly seen the signs of a conflict, and even though his manner was outwardly congenial, there could be little question as to whose side he was on.

"Ah, Brenna, there you are, and with Anderson and Donavon, as well? What a pleasent coincidence."

"And what are you doing here, freak?" challenged Sally.

Brenna inwardly flinched at the word "freak". She still couldn't steel herself to the cruel name. But Sherlock didn't so much as bat an eye. "I'm picking up my partner for the evening, Sally, even though I do believe that is none of your business."

"It is partly the business of the Yard." said Anderson, "You have a lot of nerve even showing up here today, after what you tried to pull."

"Why, Anderson, whatever can you mean? Oh, by the way, Sally, anything interesting happen in that press conference this afternoon? I hope that nothing interrupted it."

By this point, the two officers were both fuming visibly. "How far do you think you can push Lestrade before he arrests you for interfering in an investigation? Sally demanded, "You're not immune to the law."

"I did nothing to interfere with his investigation. You lot do enough of that without my so-called interference. I was merely offering Lestrade some friendly advice."

"You call humiliating him in front of the press friendly?"

"It got his attention, didn't it?"

"It's only a matter of time before you cross the line with Lestrade." Said Anderson, "But not even you could have tapped into the Yard's mainframe without help, and if whoever helped you got caught, I would hate to be in that person's shoes." He cast a critical glance at Brenna. "Especially if that person was a convicted criminal, with a history of not being trusted."

Sherlock's easy manner slipped ever so slightly when he heard these words and the mocking, scornful quality in them. Anderson's words had struck a nerve. He shifted his weight ever so slightly so that it brought him in front of Brenna, as if deliberately trying to put a barrier between her and Anderson's accusations. "What is it exactly that you are implying, Anderson? That I wasn't good enough to do this on my own?" He asked, his voice the same detached tone as before, even as his eyes grew brighter, and more piercing from an inner light.

"Only that it was the work of a criminal, and as is perfectly demonstrated by the company in front of me, criminals and psychopaths obviously enjoy getting it off together."

Anderson had gone a bit too far. Sherlock's entire body went rigid, and his eyes flashed with such intensity that even Anderson and Donavon couldn't miss it. They actually took a step back, their faces more than a little uncertain. Sherlock didn't necessarily need to show emotion to become suddenly very frightening.

He opened his mouth, no doubt about to deliver a truly cutting observation, when suddenly Alice Bennett's voice cut him off. "Is there a problem here?"

She had approached them unawares, and it was probably a good thing that she had even appeared. It swung the balance firmly in the direction of Brenna and Sherlock, as no one wanted to get on Alice's bad side. "I'm waiting for someone to answer my question." She said, after a moment of silence. "Is there a problem here that needs to be taken care of?"

Sherlock's face had resumed its normal detachment, and there was no longer any sign of anger on his face. "No problem that I'm aware of, Bennett. I was just picking up Brenna when Anderson and Donavon started to accuse her of something for which they had no proof."

"That's a lie." Spluttered Anderson, who was hoping to save some face. "Your pet criminal-" He cut himself off when he saw Alice's grey eyes grow steely, and amended quickly, "That is, Consultant Ryan hacked into the Yard's database this afternoon. I'm sure that she was up to something suspicious. Didn't you see anything this afternoon that seemed out of the ordinary?"

"I don't make it a point to watch every move of the people who work for me." said Alice, "However, I will admit that you seemed to be engaged in a rather long texting conversation with this afternoon, Brenna. That only seems to happen with Sherlock nowadays. Has that anything to do with this?"

"Of course not." said Brenna, "It's our anniversary, Sherlock and I have been together for six months."

"You expect us to believe that?" scoffed Donavon, "A psychopath like Sherlock Holmes remembering something as sentimental as an anniversary?"

"It still doesn't make it right." said Anderson, "Bennett, she was still taking up time on private business. Doesn't that seem a little suspicious to you?"

"No, actually. I call my husband from the office all the time. Don't you do the same, Anderson? I'm sure that your wife loves to be reminded that you're thinking of her, especially considering how often her job takes her away from London."

Brenna did her best to hide the triumphant smirk from appearing on her face, while Sherlock made no such attempt. Donavon and Anderson suddenly looked very uncomfortable. It was the worst kept secret in the Yard that the two of them were having an affair behind the back of Donavon's wife. It made all their pretensions of decency and righteousness more than a little hollow.

After Alice allowed them to wallow in embarrassment for a few seconds, she said, "But if, as you say, there is any suspicion of hacking going on in the Yard internally, that could lead to something serious. If you happen to find anything, you can talk to me then. Good bye, so nice to see the two of you, as always."

It was a clear dismissal, and only great idiots would have stuck around to argue the point. Both Donavon and Anderson beat a hasty retreat.

"I will be interested in seeing what sort of evidence they can come up with about this alleged hacking." Said Alice.

"A really accomplished hacker would have covered their tracks, wouldn't they?" said Brenna, with a big grin.

"Wouldn't that be the point?" said Sherlock.

"Just as long as you didn't use my name, I don't want to hear anything else about it." said Alice.

"Of course, I wouldn't have used your name, if I would have thought to do anything like this at all. That would have been far too obvious."

"Then whose-" Alice stopped and shook her head. "You know what, I don't want to know. Although, I do have to ask, is it really your six-month anniversary?"

"No, and that should have occurred to Anderson and Donavon, if they paid any attention to such things." said Sherlock, "It's actually six months, three weeks, and five days."

"That long? My, time really does fly."

"Sometimes, it feels much longer, believe me." said Brenna, "But we are actually planning on doing something tonight. Sherlock finally found a decent flat. I'm going to help him move in tonight."

"Oh, you two, young lovers partying the nigh away." Said Alice, "Don't be up to late, Brenna, and don't allow this detective to make any suggestive overtures."

The three went their separate ways. Sherlock looked back at Alice. "She has to say things like that, doesn't she?"

"She's protective of me, Sherlock, you know that. I don't see why it should surprise you after all this time. Why should it bother you? She doesn't scare you, does she?"

Sherlock glanced at her, and then deliberately changed the subject, which gave Brenna all the answer that she needed. "Whose name did you use? It wasn't Bennett's, you respect her to much and it would have been far too obvious."

"Not to mention dull."

"Exactly, and the respect that I have for you of finding inventive ways to bend the rules would have irrevocably damaged. But, whose name did you use to get into the mainframe?"

She stopped walking, looked up at him and smiled. "You don't want to try and come up with it yourself?"

"I know I could. In fact, I'm sure I already know the answer. But I want to give you the satisfaction of saying it yourself."

"Then, I'll take satisfaction in telling you. I used Anderson's name."

It was a rarity for anyone to get a real, genuine smile out of Sherlock. Most of the time, any smile he had came from his own amusement at the foibles of humanity. But Brenna had a special way with Sherlock; when he smiled at her, it was always genunine. "You can be almost brilliant at times, Brenna."

"I do what I can." Said Brenna, as she smiled back.


	3. Unpacking

Unpacking:

221B Baker St. used to be a regular flat in London. However, the very moment that Sherlock Holmes leased it from Mrs. Martha Hudson, it was destined to become a place where anything but normal would reign.

Sherlock had known Mrs. Hudson for about three years. She was a kind, motherly woman, who had looked after Sherlock more than a few times over the years. She was a veritable saint for wanting to take Sherlock under her roof. She was perfectly aware of all his quirks, and that he wouldn't always be the easiest person to have as a renter.

However, Mrs. Hudson was one of those remarkable people who are able to look at someone without any sort of judgment or preconceived notions. She knew Sherlock, and she accepted him exactly for who he was, flaws and all.

One would have thought that the combination of two people such as Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock Holmes could only have ended in disaster. But strangely, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson got along famously. Mrs. Hudson didn't always know what Sherlock was going on about, and Sherlock could sometimes snap at her harshly during his more high-strung moments. At the same time, he was also rather protective of her, and she trusted him to always be doing the right thing. It was a very warm relationship, in its own odd way.

That same warmth had quickly extended to Brenna herself. Not only did Mrs. Hudson greet Brenna without the slightest hint of suspicion, she viewed their developing relationship as the most natural thing in the world.

As the cab pulled up in front of 221B Baker, and the two of them got out, Mrs. Hudson was already at the door to meet them. "Sherlock, there you are. You're later than I expected."

Sherlock embraced her warmly (another sign of how much Sherlock trusted her, seeing as how he hardly allowed anyone to touch him). "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Brenna insisted on getting something to eat first. She said that she didn't want to bother you with something that trivial."

"She is right, Sherlock. I'm not your housekeeper. You're going to need to find someone else to do that for you." She turned to Brenna, and gave her a hug. "I'm certainly glad to see you, my dear. I can't imagine how Sherlock could have managed all those boxes on his own. I'm afraid that I wouldn't be able to be much help, what with my hip and everything."

"No trouble at all, Mrs. Hudson. Besides, I could use the exercise."

For about an hour, Sherlock and Brenna were making trips up and down the steps in order to get all the boxes in the living room of the flat on the second floor. "Where's your flatmate going to be sleeping, on the roof?" asked Brenna, once all the boxes were in the living room, "That's the only place where there'll be room by the time you get this lot unpacked."

"Don't be absurd. It's not as bad as it looks."

Brenna looked around the room, which was near to overflowing with Sherlock's boxes. "Of course, it's not a lot, despite the fact that for the past ten years, you've not thrown anything away. By the way, when you get a flatmate, I expect to meet him. I have to make sure that you both know what you're getting into."

"I don't plan on getting a flatmate in the foreseeable future." Said Sherlock, who had started to unpack the books and put them on the shelves.

"Sherlock, even with the special deal that Mrs. Hudson is giving you, even I know that you can't afford this place on your own."

"And where am I supposed to start looking?" asked Sherlock, "I have standards. You know that I couldn't stand having an idiot around here constantly."

Mrs. Hudson had just come into the room with two cups of tea (despite her earlier statement, she always seemed to enjoy giving the two of them whatever they needed, within reason, of course). She caught the tail end of the conversation and said, "It's really to bad that you couldn't move in here yourself, Brenna."

Brenna smiled. "'That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I'm bound by contract, not to mention my anklet. I don't think that the unique living arrangements that I have at my flat would be all that conducive to moving somewhere else."

While they had been speaking, Sherlock had found something in the crate of books that shouldn't have been there to begin with (organizing was not always one of Sherlock's strongest suits), and he had walked over and put it on the mantle. When Mrs. Hudson happened to catch sight of just what the object was, she was more than a little taken aback. "Sherlock, is that a skull?"

"Yes, it is. Excellent deduction, Mrs. Hudson. I'm so glad that some of what I've said to you over the years about observing your surroundings is finally taking hold."

"But it's not real, is it?"

"Of course, it's real. Don't worry. I'm sure it's not anyone you knew."

"Bob." Said Brenna, who had crossed the living room and was in the process of unpacking the boxes that were on Sherlock's desk.

Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson turned to stare at her with puzzled looks. "What?" said Sherlock.

"The skull, its name is Bob."

"It has a name?" said Mrs. Hudson, who looked totally confused by this point.

"Bob?" said Sherlock, in disbelief, "You want to name my skull Bob?"

"Well, you did say it belonged to a man, so it makes perfect sense to call it a man's name."

"But, Bob?" repeated Sherlock, who still sounded rather shocked at the idea.

"Well, it there's nothing else you two need, I'll leave you to it." said Mrs. Hudson, who had pretty much hit her limit of weirdness for the evening.

"Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Hudson." called Brenna, she glanced at Sherlock. "Oh, stop looking at me like that."

"Bob," said Sherlock, looking at the skill with a pronounced shudder of sympathy.

"Yes, I heard you, Sherlock. You're starting to repeat yourself."

"You are _not_ going to name my skull something as inane as Bob."

"Well, you're the one who said naming it Yorick would be inane, because everyone will automatically assume that's what it is. I'm just trying to help. You said that if I had any suggestions, I should bring them up."

"I was thinking that you would be able to come up with something more creative. Do you happen to know how many men in the city of London are called Bob?"

"No, but I'm sure you could tell me if you wanted to."

"Not to mention that Bob is a generic form for any number of other names, all of them just as bad."

However, by this point, Brenna wasn't listening to Sherlock's complaints. She had found a file at the bottom of the crate which she was unpacking. It was a file from a case she recognized, and it surprised her that Sherlock should have even thought to keep it. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was still muttering about the issue of naming the skull something appropriate and he hadn't heard her. "Now, I won't be able to look at that skull without thinking about it. I hope that you're happy about that."

"Sherlock." Said Brenna, a bit more forcefully.

"What?"

Brenna held up the file. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It a case file, Brenna. I have dozens of them."

"But this one isn't with the others. It's amongst your personal things and unless I'm badly mistaken, it's the case that you and I worked six months ago, those stolen Titians if I recall rightly."

Sherlock suddenly grew very quiet. For a few seconds, he really didn't seem to have anything good to say. In fact, he seemed almost embarrassed. "Oh, that, well, you know that I have a habit of keeping the cases that I find particularly challenging in a special place."

"Except that I seem to remember you saying that this wasn't a very challenging case for you. You knew who was behind the murder of Martin Corton and the stolen Titians within the first day we worked the case together. The only reason it took two weeks to actually close was because there wasn't enough physical evidence from Bennett's point of view, a fact which drove you to the extremes of annoyance." She had been flipping through the pieces of paper tucked inside the folder. "And why did you keep the receipt from the dinner we had at Angelo's that night? That was after we had solved the case."

Sherlock had crossed the room in two seconds and grabbed the case file from her, which she stubbornly hung onto, resulting in a tug of war between them even as they continued their argument. "The case was simple; the motivations of the people involved were what made it so intriguing."

"And since when do you care about the human element behind cases?" retorted Brenna, "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that this just happened to be the case where you finally admitted that you loved me, would it?"

Sherlock finally managed to wrestle the file away from her. Making sure that all of the pieces were present and accounted for, he said, "You were the one who admitted it first."

"Really? That's not the way that I remember it."

"Well, you were the one who first admitted to an emotional attachment affecting your better judgment, which amounts to the same thing."

"You're sense of the romantic is certainly inspiring, Sherlock." Said Brenna, "However, you're still keeping this file in a special place. I know you only do that with the things that must mean something to you." She shook her head and smiled. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd say that you were being sentimental."

"Then it's a good thing that you do know me better." Said Sherlock, and as he looked at the file, his eyes seemed to soften, and when he continued to speak to her, there was perhaps a note of tenderness in his voice which was not there before. "Nothing sentimental about keeping in mind the case that changed my life, is there?"

"When you put it like that, I suppose there isn't."

The two looked into each other's eyes for a moment, before Brenna leaned forward and kissed Sherlock gently. He returned it, though only after a few seconds of indecision. Sherlock still sometimes had difficulty responding immediately to such shows of intimacy. He had lived so long with a wall around himself, that he was not always sure how to react or initiate. But, he still returned it, and that was more than a lot of people would have thought him capable of.

The kiss was not a long one, and when they parted, they still maintained their closeness, finding a certain comfort in the presence of the other. They could communicate more in that silence than many people might have been able to put into any number of speeches.

"Well, back to work." Said Sherlock, after only a few seconds and seemingly as if nothing of a romantic or emotional nature had at all occurred in the past five minutes. However, the tone of his voice and the way he looked at Brenna as he spoke, indicated that even if the moment had passed, it wouldn't be deleted, like so many other events in his life.

The two went back to unpacking, but Brenna found herself pausing for a few minutes, to remember. It had not been an easy road, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. They had known each other for at least two years before the event had occurred, and even that friendship, such as it was, had been rocky. She sometimes wondered how one case could have changed all of that. All that she knew for certain from her experiences was that love had crept up on her unexpectedly, and she had found herself in the middle with no idea of how she had even begun.


	4. Flashback I: Impersonations

Flashback I: Impersonations

_SIX MONTHS PREVIOUSLY…_

It started out as two separate cases. One was murder, the other was art theft. Ordinarily, the two cases might never have crossed paths. But there was a common factor in this instance which connected them both, a man by the name of Sir Richard Corton.

Sir Richard was an avid art collector, possessing one of the best private collections in the country. However, in the last few days, it had become dangerous to be involved with Corton and his collection. It had all started when two valuable paintings suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. They had been painted by Titian, one of the most famous artists of Venice's Renaissance period. They had only just arrived at the gallery, and hadn't been taken from their crates yet.

Art theft had very quickly escalated into murder. Two people who worked at the gallery where the collection was housed had been killed in the past week alone. One had been a night guard and the other was a researcher. It did not take much skill in deduction to be able to determine that the two crimes were connected. It soon became clear that two experts were needed. Fortunately, Scotland Yard happened to have two such experts, even if they were not the conventional kind.

So, it was on the supposedly separate crimes of murder and art theft that Sherlock and Brenna found themselves brought together, at the site of the latest victim in the string of murders that were associated with the Cortons, only this time the event had hit rather closer to home. The victim turned out to be none other than Sir Richard's son, Martin.

Brenna and Alice arrived when they got the first report of the stolen Titian. Lestrade was already there, and was the first to meet them. "Bennett, Brenna, I'm glad that you two could make it."

"We came as soon as we heard that one of the Titians we've been looking for might be here." said Alice.

"Yeah, along with the body of a peer of the realm." said Lestrade, "Forensics are still running the investigation, but they haven't gone anywhere near the painting."

As they entered the townhouse, Alice asked, "What about the victim? Are you sure that it's actually Martin?"

"Yes, we're pretty sure. That's only going to make this case all the more complicated. I thought that I understood from your message that you actually met his father?"

"Yes, Sir Richard came in two weeks ago to report that two valuable Titians had been stolen from his collection. There were no signs of a forced entry and the security cameras didn't pick up anything. As you can imagine, Brenna has been extremely excited about the whole thing. If she didn't already have an alibi for that night, I might have started to suspect her of foul play."

"I still sometimes have difficulty understanding why anyone would go to all that trouble to steal a couple of paintings." said Lestrade.

"The paintings that we're talking about aren't just a couple of pretty pictures." said Brenna, "Titian was a genius. He was a groundbreaker in the application of color to paintings in Venice during the 1500's. He was also one of the first to use oil on canvas instead of wood panels. His influence can be traced to any number of different artistic movements and painters. Believe me, Lestrade, Titian was a force to be reckoned with in the art world and he still is today."

Brenna might as well have been speaking a different language considering the blank look on Lestrade's face. He finally decided to give up deciphering what she had just said and shook his head. "I'll take your word for it."

"Lestrade, how many times do I have to remind you not to set Brenna off on a tangent about art history? You'll never get her to be quiet."

By this point, they were just outside the main parlor. Judging by the number of officers who were milling around the door, Brenna believed that they had come to the room where the body was. But while the body was most likely in the other room, the majority of the homicide team was on the outside of it. Brenna also saw Sally Donavon, who didn't look like she was in the best of moods. Granted, Sally always seemed to have a scowl on her face, but right now, she looked somewhat akin to a thunderhead cloud. That could only mean one thing. "Is Sherlock here by any chance?" She asked Lestrade.

"Yes, if you must know. He's been calling me for the past few days, says that there is some sort of connection between all of these killings that have been going on. Wouldn't leave me alone until I let him in here to have a look."

"For some reason, I doubt that Sherlock would find this case of murder and art theft worth his time." commented Alice, "This doesn't seem like the type of case which he would consider challenging enough for him."

"Look, I don't care why he's helping us, so long as he is. If he can get to the bottom of this, than that's the only thing that matters."

Regardless of what Lestrade believed when it came to Sherlock (and he did believe in Sherlock Holmes, both as a man and a detective despite his annoyance at sometimes having to put up with the consulting detectives irritating habits), there were others on the police force who would never have given Sherlock the time of day if he asked politely.

Anderson just happened to be one of them. No sooner had Lestrade finished speaking then he stormed out of the room, looking more than a little angry. "Sir," he demanded, "why did you have to bring him in on this? He's contributing nothing to the case, and he's probably tampering with all the evidence, so we won't be able to make any progress at all."

"Anderson, this is the third death in the past week that's had some sort of connection with Sir Richard. It's his son, now. You can imagine that he's going to start breathing down the necks of everyone in the Yard. Sherlock is the best chance that we have to get some sort of lead before things get even worse."

"But, do you know what he said to me?" asked an exasperated Anderson.

Brenna was frankly enjoying Anderson's discomfort. "Let me guess, he equated your intelligence to that of a snail?"

Anderson hadn't noticed Alice or Brenna until that moment, and the terrible day he had been having got instantly worse. "Oh God, what are you doing here?"

"It turns out that the safe in the parlor might contain a stolen Titian that belonged to Sir Richard Corton." said Alice.

"But there's no reason for her to be here." said Anderson, throwing a withering glance at Brenna.

"She's my consultant, Anderson, not yours, so I would advise you to keep your opinions for yourself." said Alice, turning that famous cold stare on Anderson, "What's more, she's an expert. So, unless you've happened to gain some knowledge of Renaissance paintings that come from Venice, I would appreciate it if you would be quiet."

That silenced Anderson, for which Brenna was grateful. Sherlock was enough to deal with at a crime scene. She didn't want to have to deal with the idiocy of Anderson, as well.

Having effectively taken care of Anderson for the time being, Brenna and Alice entered the bedroom. There they found Sherlock leaning over the body of a man who looked to be in his late twenties. There was a bullet hole through his chest, but Sherlock didn't even seem to be bothering with that at the moment. What else he could be seeing, Brenna was not even able to begin to guess. He barely glanced up when the two of them came in. "Brenna, I knew you would be turning up eventually."

"Really? Do I want to ask why?" asked Brenna.

"The painting in the safe." said Sherlock, "As it seemed to be a rather suspicious find, and in your department, I knew that you would want to check it out. You might be interested in knowing that the scoff marks left on the floor by the couch indicated that it was pushed aside in a hurry in order to actually get at the safe, and then pushed back again in a most haphazard way. Whoever was here obviously didn't think to check their tracks."

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Oh, don't worry; your presence in this case is only slightly annoying. At least you know what you're talking about, unlike half of the police force in London."

Lestrade sighed in frustration, but said nothing, while Anderson stood in the doorway, still visibly fuming. "I'll just go and check it out then." said Brenna.

The painting was located in a safe that had been hidden behind the couch. She bent down to examine the scene, alongside Alice. The safe was already open a crack, which leant credence to Sherlock's earlier statement that whoever had opened it had done so in a hurry.

"I recognize this type of safe." said Brenna, "It's fairly easy to open if you can get the codes right; that's really the only practical knowledge you would need. No secondary alarms to alert outside security, no way of knowing if the safe had been opened by someone who wasn't supposed too unless you happened to open it and found your valuables gone."

Alice reached into the safe and pulled out painting. "This looks like one of our paintings." She looked at Brenna, "The obvious fact of the case would seem to be that Martin was stealing something from his father. That would explain why he would have been able to break into the gallery's collection without arousing suspicion. However, does nothing else strike you as strange about that idea?"

"I think that you already know the answer to that." said Brenna, "If someone were going to steal a painting this valuable, they wouldn't have tried to hide it in a safe that was so easy to break into. Not to mention that it's not very well hidden." She was still staring at the painting, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Something simply isn't right here."

Meanwhile, Sherlock had straightened up, a decided expression on his face. "Well, what did you find?" Lestrade asked.

"Martin Corton was murdered, but he wasn't expecting it, and the killer was obviously someone that he knew or he didn't think to be a threat. The powder burns around the entry site of the wound indicates that he was killed at close range. He's only been killed within the last six hours. Moreover, the killer was obviously a woman."

"A woman?" said Lestrade, "How did you figure that?"

"Well, unless Martin had a fondness for wearing a certain kind of Dior perfume, it would only make sense that he was killed by a woman, wouldn't it? That's why it's obvious that the murder took place within the last six hours. The smell of it is still strong."

Lestrade shook his head, having nothing to say to that. Sherlock always inevitably proved to be right, so he had learned not to question it. "There is really no honor amongst thieves, is there?"

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock, "What does that have to do with what happened?"

"Shouldn't it be obvious?" said Anderson, "Martin wasn't working alone; he stole the paintings with someone else. He must have had an argument with whoever helped him. And in the ensuing struggle, Martin was killed."

"Then why take one painting and leave another behind?" asked Sherlock, pointedly, "That's part of the danger of leaping to conclusions, Anderson. The obvious solution is rarely ever the entire story."

"And besides, there's something else." said Brenna, "Whether or not this was a robbery gone wrong, I can't say. One thing I can say for certain, though. This Titian is a fake." Ignoring both Anderson's and Lestrade's expressions of stupefied shock, Brenna instead turned her attention to Alice, who was probably the only one present who would be able to understand her, besides Sherlock, and he had told her several times that he didn't really care about such things.

"Alice, look. Sir Richard told us that one of the paintings stolen was from Titian's earlier period. I will admit, on the surface it looks very much like that. The colors and contrasts are there, and the composition resembles it, but look at the brushwork. It's subtle enough, but even you can tell that the paint is spread to thick and the strokes are too broad. Even in his early days, Titian was to careful for that."

Alice was also looking closely at the painting, and after a moment, she nodded. "You're right, Brenna. This can't be from his early period, though I will admit that it's a fine reproduction. Only a true professional could have spotted it."

"Luckily you happen to have one with you wherever you go."

"But we only have your word to go on." said Anderson, sulkily.

"An X-Ray will most likely show that the actual paint used is not from the 16th century." said Alice, "For me, I would take Brenna's immediate word any day. It's called trusting your co-workers, Anderson. You should try it someday."

Anderson obviously seemed a little insulted by the idea that Brenna could be considered anyone's co-worker. "Not everyone can be so trusting of Brenna's word, Inspector. Certainly not when you consider where she got the knowledge from the in the first place."

"I studied, Anderson." Said Brenna, a little tightly, "I learned and I observed things about art that have never let me down in the past."

"But you used that knowledge to break the law, so it doesn't count."

"All right, you two, that's enough." Lestrade ordered sternly. "I won't have you tearing each other apart over something like this. Brenna, I trust your judgment, but we have to be sure. We can take care of the painting in less than twenty-four hours."

"And in the course of that time, another person could be killed." objected Brenna, "We have to move now."

"Brenna's right." said Sherlock, "Supposing that Martin is involved in a plot to rob his own father and was killed for it, there's no telling where his partner might stop in his killing. There have already been two other people murdered over these paintings; do you want to risk another high-profile murder like this, Lestrade?"

For a very long moment, Lestrade looked from Brenna to Sherlock, clearly torn between the rules he was bound to follow and the results which he knew unconventionality could bring. However, when he glanced at Alice, he was struck by the very solution he needed. "Anderson, get some of the others to get this painting downstairs, we're going to need it analyzed."

Anderson, thinking that Lestrade had seen things his way, was more than happy to oblige. As he left them alone, Lestrade stopped Brenna's inevitable objection. "Brenna, I'm not wasting time, I'm making use of all the resources that I have at my disposal."

"I beg your pardon?" said Sherlock, who might have already figured out what Lestrade was getting at and he didn't like it.

"Seeing as this case involves murder and art theft, it only makes sense that you two work on it in your own time." said Alice.

"So, your assigning Brenna to me, again?" asked Sherlock, sarcastically, "How truly delightful."

"Don't try and hide your excitement, Sherlock." Brenna said, "Bennett, is this really necessary?"

"If you want the results you're talking about, then yes." Said Alice, "And don't look like we're sending you into the salt mines. The last time you were on a case with Sherlock was three months ago, so you can't say that I do this to you all the time. And don't forget that you brought in the culprit within a week."

"We might as well go along with their opinions." said Sherlock, "It's hard to argue with facts."

"Are you actually advocating teamwork, Sherlock? Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

"Lestrade, I think that's our cue to exit. Let them get the battle of wits out of their systems, and maybe they'll have enough left over for the case."

"One can only hope."

As Lestrade and Alice left the room, Sherlock looked at Brenna. "Was that meant to be an insult?"

"I think it was more of a critique." said Brenna, "Bennett has often told me that we spend as much time exchanging barbed witticisms as we do actually solving the cases."

"But they both know that we work better when we talk aloud. How can they possibly expect us to work together if we don't exchange ideas?" said Sherlock, clearly missing the point.

Brenna had to laugh. Truth be told, she didn't actually mind working with Sherlock, not as much as she used to, anyway. If one could just put up with his sometimes irritating personality, his unorthodox methods and his unthinking rudeness, he actually wasn't so bad. "Then what do you say we prove them wrong and get to work right away? I do believe that we have a thief and a killer to track down."


	5. Flashback I: Suppositions

Flashback II: Suppositions

Sherlock and Brenna had a daunting task before them. The crime scene had left no definite clues as to the identity of the person who was responsible for both Martin Corton's murder and the theft of the Titians. All they had to go on was that the probable suspect was a woman who had a preference for Dior perfume. The best thing that they could was go back to where the whole thing had started: the private gallery of Richard Cotron.

Alice had already called ahead to ensure that they would be able to get in without any trouble. They were led into the main room of the gallery, which contained Sir Richard's Renaissance collection, where they were told to wait for the gallery's curator. Brenna's eyes were dancing as she looked at the various masterpieces. Sherlock, noticing her look, felt the need to comment. "Don't drool, Brenna."

Brenna didn't really hear him. She was too absorbed in looking at the paintings around her. "What I wouldn't give for even one of these."

"Why not just steal one? You've done it before without compunction."

"Besides the fact that I don't need that crime actually proved against me, I can tell just by looking at this place that the security here is tight. Security cameras are covering every possible angle. The doors are equipped with fingerprint scanners, not to mention that we had to pass through two security checkpoints to come to this point."

"It all turns out to be useless though, doesn't it? Rather ironic when you think about it. Thousands of pounds to protect what he obviously prizes above all else, and in the end, it still gets taken away from him. I assume that the murder of the security guard and the theft of the Titians happened during the night shift."

Brenna nodded. "The paintings weren't even hanging in the gallery when they went missing. The time between when a painting arrives at a museum or gallery like this and the time when it's actually put on display is a prime opportunity for a theft to occur. It's the only time when the security isn't as tight. But whoever did it would still need to know how to get into the gallery, let alone the storage room."

Sherlock was about to respond to this when a woman entered the room. "Perhaps we'll be getting some answers from the curator." He said.

"Here's hoping." Brenna responded in a low voice, before approaching the woman and saying, "I assume that you must be the curator for Sir Richard's collection."

"Yes, my name is Stella Parker." said the woman, smiling as she shook hands with Brenna, "You must be the specialist that the police sent over about the stolen Titans."

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Said Brenna, "My name is Brenna Ryan."

Stella raised one eyebrow. "Brenna Ryan? That name sounds familiar. I seem to remember that name circulating around the circuit a few times in years past?"

"I may have been around a few times." said Brenna, after a momentary pause. "I went legitimate a few years ago."

Stella shook her head ruefully. "Almost a pity. I hear that you had a great deal of talent. Still, I am glad that you're on the side of law and order this time." She turned to Sherlock. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you here for the same reason as Miss Ryan, then?"

"On a related matter, the murder of Martin Corton."

Stella's expression changed to one of sadness. "Oh yes, we just learned about that a few hours ago. Tragic. Martin was a greet patron of the arts. Much like his father in that regard. He will be very much missed."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?" asked Sherlock.

"No, Martin was well liked. I can't imagine why he would want to cause trouble with anyone."

"Unfortunately, he did create trouble with someone, and that is most likely what killed him." observed Sherlock.

"What do you mean?"

"That brings us back to the stolen Titans." said Brenna, "We found one of the paintings at his flat. The evidence suggested that he might have been murdered by whoever helped him steal the paintings from his father's gallery."

Brenna and Sherlock had fallen into the method of interrogation which worked so well for them whenever they worked together. Brenna asked the questions relating to the case. She had a talent for not only knowing the right questions to ask, but also _how_ to ask them. Sherlock knew the right questions to ask as well, but sometimes, he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. However, he took advantage of the fact that no one was paying attention to him, and made use of the opportunity to observe both the person of interest, but also the surroundings. Nine times out of ten, the person under this subtle double assault gave something away without even realizing that they had done so.

Stella seemed to be astounded when she heard this, especially considering the fact that Brenna said it as if it were unquestionable. "Wait, are you saying that Martin stole those Titans?"

"It certainly looks that way." said Brenna, airily, "Whoever stole those paintings must have been well known to the people who worked here, so as not to arouse suspicion. He would also have needed to have inside knowledge of the security here in order to bypass it. Martin fits that description rather too well, I'm afraid."

"Wait, what's your saying is impossible." said Stella, "Martin would never hurt his father like this. Even with all the trouble that they have had in the past few months, he never would have done anything like what you're describing."

"Trouble?" asked Sherlock, "We weren't aware that there was any sort of feud between Martin and his father."

For a split second, Stella's face showed momentary discomfort, as though she had just revealed more than she had wanted. "Well, Martin and his father have been having some disagreements of late, but nothing would have induced Martin to stoop to such malicious revenge."

"Would you happen to know anything else about that?" asked Brenna.

"I'm afraid that I don't know anymore than that." said Stella.

Brenna could tell that Stella wasn't going to be giving them anything else, not without having to press for it. and at this stage in the questioning, trying such a tactic might prove to be more a setback than anything else. "Well, it really doesn't matter. The killer already made a mistake."

"A mistake? What kind of mistake?"

"That's the other thing which we came to tell you about. The painting we found at the house was a fake."

Stella seemed very surprised when she heard this. "A fake? Are you sure?"

"Yes, granted, it was a very good fake. It might have fooled a lot of amateurs. But, I'm not an amateur."

"No, I suppose you are, Miss Ryan." said Stella, her friendly demeanor slipping ever so slightly, to be replaced by something that was altogether cooler and more sinister. "So, I guess that means that the killer still has the Titians."

"Yes, but the very fact that he left the one painting at the crime scene is a mistake in and of itself. Every art forager leaves a distinct marker, if it can be called that. If you know what to look for, it's easy to track them down."

"And you think that you can find this forager?"

"I'm certainly going to try. After all, the chances are good that whoever killed Martin has the Titians, or knows where they are. Simply, if we can find the original Titians, we'll find the killer."

Oddly, this news did not seem to make Stella particularly relieved. Indeed, she frowned for a moment, and a look of displeasure flashed in her eyes. She composed her face as best as she could for her next words. "Well, it seems that you have everything in order, doesn't it? I only hope that what you say can be proved. I would hate for Martin to have made any enemies."

"Well, it's quite clear that he did make enemies, didn't he?" said Sherlock, who seemed to have finished his covert deducing, and Brenna could see by the look in his eyes that he had come up with something.

"We all have enemies, in our own way. I fear that some of them are only more deadly than others."

"I suppose that it why it always best to be prepared." Said Sherlock, is a decidedly pointed voice.

For a few long moments, Stella looked from Brenna to Sherlock. The tension in the room seemed to have jumped, though no one else would have been able to understand why. Seemingly, Stella had not said anything that was suspicious and Sherlock and Brenna had gotten nowhere. However, for all three people engaged in this interrogation, they all seemed to know that something had been revealed.

"Well, thank you for your time." said Sherlock, abruptly bringing the staring match to an end. "You have been most helpful."

"I wasn't quite finished-" Brenna started to object, but Sherlock, as usual, didn't listen.

"Yes, you are, Brenna. We've already taken up enough of Miss Parker's time, and there's nothing more we can do here. Come along, Brenna."

Not even giving her a chance to object, Sherlock took her by the arm and dragged her away from the room.

This hadn't been exactly in keeping with what Brenna had wanted to do. Once they were past the security, Sherlock finally let her go and she turned on him with irritation. "I wasn't finished yet."

"You were quite finished. I'd already gathered everything I needed to draw a conclusion. Anymore of your questioning would have only increased her suspicions."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stella Parker killed Martin."

"Oh, of course, she did. Why?"

"I don't know that part for sure yet, but I assume that she might also have helped him steal the paintings from the gallery."

"Okay, I grant you that she might be a person of interest. When Alice and I were first looking into the gallery, we learned that Stella Parker has only been working for Sir Richard for a few months. That would have been enough time for her to become familiar with the security. But, her background is impeccable, beyond reproach. I suspect that's why Sir Richard hired her."

"And I believe that you should know that 'impeccable backgrounds' can be easily foraged. She was also wearing the same perfume that was found at the scne Martin's body, not to mention on the bodies of the other victims. I'm so glad that you don't wear any kind of perfume, Brenna. It can be almost as damming as a smoking gun if people actually think to smell for it."

"Thank you, I think."

"And besides that, there was also the fact that she was armed. Small gun, fairly easy to hide in the pocket of her jacket. The same type of bullet that killed Martin and the others came from a small caliber pistol. It seems a bit odd, doesn't it, that a private museum curator should go around armed?"

"Now that you mention it, she seemed more than a little reluctant to talk about whatever problems the Corton family was having with each other. And I don't think that it was all because of discretion. There was also what she said to me when we first met. She seemed to recognize my name."

"Why should that bother you?" asked Sherlock, "I thought that you liked getting attention for your exploits."

"Yes, but I don't expect a perfectly respectable gallery curator to ask if I'm still in business. She asked me if I was on the circuit. That's white collar talk to ask me if I was still active in certain questionable activities when it came to the art world."

"Well, that should be sufficient to prove that Stella Parker is no ordinary gallery curator."

"Or, she just knows my name as someone to watch out for. For what it's worth, you've explained a pretty good case. But we still don't know why she would want to kill Martin, or how she could have gotten those paintings in the first place. Bennett is going to want some sort of concrete proof before she proceeds against her."

"And while we're running around trying to do that, Stella Parker could kill someone else."

"You make it sound as though you don't think you can meet the challenge?"

Sherlock looked indignant. "I never said that."

"Good, than stop complaining and let's see what we can find out."

Sherlock would have liked very much to say something cutting. But to his chagrin, he found himself backed into a corner. Brenna had a somewhat annoying habit of doing this, and she had done it more than once over the past two years that they had known each other. She was one of the few people who could catch him completely off guard. It was annoying, but Sherlock would have been lying if he also didn't find it something of a challenge to try and stay one step ahead of her. And Sherlock had always liked a challenge.

"Well, after you, then."

Brenna shot him a triumphant smirk, and headed out the door. Sherlock followed her, a scowl of aggravation on his face, a scowl that seemed to strangely be hiding a smile.


	6. John Watson

Chapter 4: John Watson

_PRESENT DAY…_

John Watson honestly had no idea what he was getting into. From the first moment he had laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, he had known that the man was trouble. Common sense told him to stay away from him. But common sense decisions didn't really seem to apply to Sherlock Holmes. There was something undeniably charismatic about him which he was sure drove a lot of people away, but which John had to confess himself intrigued by.

And when Sherlock had rattled off his entire life story when John hadn't even known his first name was also another fact that intrigued him. John was, by nature, a private person. Ask his therapist, who said that he had trust issues. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he was even considering this. How could he have trust issues with someone who already knew everything about him at a glance?

John didn't really know if it was these factors, or sheer insanity which made him turn up at 221B Baker St. at the appointed time. Quite honestly, he didn't know what to expect when he arrived.

But even he was surprised when the cab pulled up in front of the flat at nearly the same time he was limping up to it, and Sherlock Holmes got out. He greeted him and John was about to return the courtesy, when he saw the woman getting out of the opposite side of the cab. She was about his height, and he reasoned her to be in her early thirties. She had dark blonde hair, and light green eyes. She was not conventionally pretty, but not unattractive. And she was obviously more than a friend to Sherlock, as the expression on his face was nothing short of adoring when he looked at her. He wasn't quite sure what to say. Sherlock hadn't said anything about a girlfriend. In fact, John had to admit that Sherlock hadn't struck him as the type to attract girlfriends, or really anyone, for that matter.

"You must be John Watson." She said, as she came up to stand beside them on the sidewalk. John could hear the slight Irish lilt in her voice.

"That would be me." said John, as he reached out to shake hands with her.

"Brenna Ryan, my partner." Said Sherlock. "I trust that you'll get along with her. She spends quite a lot of time with me."

"He's exaggerating, John." said Brenna, with a smile, "I'm not here to make you feel unwelcome. If I ever become too much for you, you're always welcome to throw me out."

John was slightly at a loss for words. This woman, Brenna, seemed very nice. In fact, she seemed normal. It was odd. Nice and normal were two of the last words he would have used to describe Sherlock. "Oh no. doesn't worry about it. It's all… fine."

Sherlock had already gone up to knock on the door, and John took the opportunity to steer the course of conversation to more neutral ground. "This is a prime spot, must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal, owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to help out.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." said Sherlock, airily.

John was a bit stunned by this. "He was an arrogant, cheating cad, who was two-timing her with other women." Brenna explained, "Oh, and he also was running a drug cartel under her nose. I think you can guess the rest from there."

Before John could reply, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared. "Sherlock," She said, warmly, as she hugged him.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock introduced his potential new flat mate.

Mrs. Hudson welcomed them all inside. Sherlock, with his usual joie de vivre, went up the steps first. John wasn't nearly so sprightly, what with the limp in his leg. But to his surprise, he found that Brenna was walking with him. "Sherlock's told me all about you."

"Oh, really, he has?" said John, not sure if that was a good thing or not. "Everything?"

"Yes, army doctor, suffering from a psychosomatic limp, brother who drinks, all of it."

"That about covers it, I suppose." muttered John, "How did he know?"

"I'll leave that for him to explain. He can do it with a lot more flair than I can. I must say that I am surprised, however."

"Really, by what?"

"That you didn't run away screaming. That's what most people do, or its equivalent."

John got the distinct impression that he had just been paid a compliment, even if it was a rather odd one. By this time, the two of them had reached the top of the steps. Sherlock was already waiting at the door of their flat. Once the two of them had joined him, he pushed it open and they all went inside.

The interior of the room was well-lived in and scattered with more boxes than John could count. However, there was a homey, warm feel to the place, more so than he had been used to in recent years. He believed that he could be quite comfortable here. "Well, this could be very nice, very nice indeed."

"Yes, I think so." Said Sherlock, evidently glad that John approved. "My thoughts exactly. So I moved in straightaway."

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleared up." Said John, at exactly the same moment.

The two looked at each other a bit awkwardly, as they both realized what the other had said. "Oh, so this is all your stuff then?"

"Well, obviously, I can clean up, a bit."

"I told you that you had too much in here, Sherlock." said Brenna, "You might actually have to throw some things out."

John was about to respond, when he noticed the skull on the mantelpiece. "That's a skull."

"A friend of mine," said Sherlock, with what John could have sworn was fondness, "Well, I say friend."

"Whose name-"

"Whose name is not Bob." Said Sherlock, emphatically cutting Brenna off. "Brenna, we discussed this."

"Um, no, actually. I listened; you gave me a lecture on the subject for twenty minutes."

"Well, you obviously weren't listening very well, because you still insist on calling him Bob."

"I haven't heard you suggest anything better."

John watched this entire exchange, not quite sure how he was supposed to interpret it. They both seemed to be enjoying annoying each other. Sherlock, particularly, seemed to be enjoying it, and John thought that he saw in Sherlock's eyes the first sign of any kind of affection that he had ever seen in the man.

Mrs. Hudson didn't even seem to notice anything special about the little spat. It seemed to her to be a perfectly normal occurrence. "What do you say, Dr. Watson? Don't worry, there's an extra bedroom upstairs, seeing as you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Well, of course, we'll be needing two." said John, rather quickly.

"And even if you didn't, don't worry." said Mrs. Hudson, "There are all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner's next door has got married ones."

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock has been accused of many things, but I highly doubt that he's ever given bi-sexual polygamy a try."

"Might be worth thinking about, though." said Sherlock, and John couldn't really tell whether or not he was serious. "It would be a relief from the boredom."

"Try it and I'll kill you." said Brenna.

John sat down in one of the chairs in the living room. "I looked you up on the internet last night." He told Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your website, The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" asked Sherlock, almost eagerly. His incredible ego was always on the lookout for someone to tell him how amazing he was.

However, John still had some difficulty believing the things that Sherlock claimed he was able to do. He laughed, as if not sure how to phrase the question and Sherlock's expression faltered.

"You said that you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes, and I could read your military service in your leg and haircut, and your brothers' drinking habits on your mobile phone."

He had him there, and John couldn't deny it. "How?"

Sherlock didn't answer, obviously wanting to draw out the suspense as long as he could. Mrs. Hudson, who had been puttering around in the kitchen trying to clean up Sherlock's mess (an impossible task, unfortunately), came back into the room, holding a newspaper. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your street. Three of them, exactly the same."

Sherlock had been staring out the window and at this very moment, something captured his attention. "Four," he said, "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

"It's Lestrade." Said Brenna, coming to the window just in time to see the head of the Homicide Department get out of the car and head into the flat. "It must be serious if he's coming himself."

A few seconds later, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade walked into the room. He bore a strong resemblance to Alice Bennett, who was his younger sister. They shared the same intense devotion to duty, but Greg sometimes seemed older and more world weary than his years would suggest. He had lost his wife seven years before in a car accident, leaving him a widower with a two year old son, Charlie. Ever since that time, according to Alice, there had been only two things in Lestrade's life which had truly mattered to him: his son, and his work. He was a good man and an excellent police officer. Even Sherlock respected him, far more than he respected anyone else on the police force, even if he would never admit it. Brenna liked him as well, though on a more personal level than Sherlock.

Sherlock knew why Lestrade was there, and so he skipped the formalities as usual. "Where this time?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?"

"What's different about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different? "

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did."

Brenna saw that Sherlock was definitely intrigued. However, he still wanted all of the facts. "Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson." said Lestrade, almost reluctantly.

Sherlock's expression soured. "Anderson doesn't work well with me."

"Anderson doesn't work well with anyone." Muttered Brenna.

Lestrade decided too ignore that comment and just focus on Sherlock. "Well, he won't be your assistant."

"But I _need_ an assistant."

Lestrade was not one to give up. He needed Sherlock's help right now, and he was willing to put up with quite a lot of his insolence in order to get it. "Will you come?"

Sherlock glanced at Brenna for a split second who gave him one of the looks she always did when he was trying to be difficult, and it was a look that clearly said, 'Go on, you know you want to.'

Looking back at Lestrade, he said, "Not in the police car, I'll be right behind."

Lestrade didn't once bother to hide his relief. He did not care how Sherlock came, so long as he did. He said his thanks and then left. Sherlock waited until he heard the door to 221B Baker St. close, and only then did he let his true excitement show. His entire face lightened with an almost disturbing exhilaration and John was startled when he actually jumped for joy. "Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas."

It was the most animated that John had seen him. The energy radiating off of Sherlock was almost manic, and it was not without a little envy that John watched his ease of movement, remembering when he had been able to do the same thing without the damn limp slowing him down every five steps.

But it was a little strange that Sherlock would have been so excited about a violent act. John would have expected at least a little empathy. Brenna herself didn't even seem to blink an eye. In fact, she was watching Sherlock with a small smile of indulgence, as though she were used to such displays and even found them a little amusing.

Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of any of this. He was to busy flinging on his coat and scarf. "Mrs. Hudson, might be late, might need some food."

"I'm your land lady dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home. Don't wait up." And then, just like that, he was gone. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock seemed to have completely forgotten about Brenna, which he thought might have caused her some annoyance.

But, again she surprised him by just laughing and shaking her head. "Here we go again." She said, "I think I'll leave you to get settled here, John. It was lovely to meet you. I hope we'll be seeing each other again soon. Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson."

Brenna headed out the door, leaving John to wonder just what he was getting into with this flat share and hoping that he wasn't going to his ultimate end.

Brenna, meanwhile, headed down the steps, only to nearly run into Sherlock, who was just about to go back up to the flat. "Sherlock, wrong direction. The murder scene is out the door."

"I know, but I've just come up with an idea."

"Oh no, that's hardly ever a good sign. Should I be worried?"

"John, what do you think of him?"

"Sherlock, I only met him five minutes ago."

"And you're almost as good at reading people as I am. What are your first impressions?"

"Well, he seems loyal, steady, and level-headed, about the opposite of you in every respect."

Yes, and what else?"

"And he also had to be a bit as crazy as you, because he's here and hasn't been completely repulsed by you."

"Of course, I knew that you would see things my way."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" Sherlock sighed with obvious impatience. 'Well, I'm sorry, my mind doesn't move at the speed of light in multiple directions."

"I'm going to ask John to come with me."

"What? What one earth for?"

"He's an army doctor. I could use his help. Besides, he needs to get out; it will help to get rid of his limp."

"And how will witnessing a gruesome murder scene help him to walk properly again?"

"Honestly, Brenna, can you be so unobservant? John obviously misses the excitement and thrill of danger."

Brenna wasn't exactly sure of this, but then again, she had learned long ago that she shouldn't question Sherlock's judgment. More often than not, he always turned out to be right. "Just don't frighten him off, Sherlock. I think I might be starting to like him and I won't have him permanently scarred by your actions."

Sherlock smirked. "Like you were when you first met me? Don't try and measure my relationship with you by the standards of how I treat others. You're special."

"You certainly know how to make a girl feel special, Sherlock. I'll say that for you."

"Good, I'm glad that you think that." said Sherlock, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her gently on the forehead. "Now stop worrying." With that, he turned and hurried back up the steps.

Brenna only shook her head, watching Sherlock disappear up the steps with his usual enthusiasm. She was hopeful for John Watson. She hope that he was ready to plunge headlong into danger and bizarreness. Because that was the only way to describe life with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 


	7. Ideas

Chapter 5: Ideas

Brenna had been expecting Sherlock to call or text her sometime that evening. He always wanted someone to bounce ideas off of, or to listen to his incessant ramblings, or to keep him company while he stared off into space for hours on end. Most of the time, it was all of the above at some point during the evening.

After she had gotten back to her flat from walking Lily, there was indeed a text message on her phone from Sherlock: **Come to Baker St. I need you. SH**

There was an abrupt tone to the message which fitted all of Sherlock's texts. It was something that she had long since gotten used to. She really had nothing else better to do that evening, though, and she was honestly curious to see how far Sherlock had gotten in his latest distraction. However, she wasn't really prepared to put up with Sherlock alone tonight.

"Come on, Lily." She told the beagle, "We're going out again. I think you could do with a change of scene."

Conveniently, Baker St. happened to be only a few blocks from her own flat, so she arrived in little less than ten minutes. When she rang the doorbell at 221B, Mrs. Hudson was the one to answer. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson." said Brenna, 'Sorry to inconvenience you yet again with my presence, but I've been summoned."

"You know you're always welcome here, Brenna." said Mrs. Hudson. She smiled down at Lily and bent down to pat her on the head. "Thinking it's going to be one of those evenings when you'll need Lily for back-up?"

"With Sherlock, I know to always come prepared." said Brenna, as she let Lily off the leash. Lily let loose a bark and scurried up the steps to the flat above. "How is he?"

"Not as bad as he could be, though he was shouting at me something terrible awhile back. Something about using my phone to send a text message. I ignored him, of course."

"Glad to hear it, Mrs. Hudson. You, of all people, know what a bad idea it is to enable Sherlock." She said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, before following her dog up the steps.

She came into the flat to witness a rather amusing scene. Lily had jumped up on the sofa and was in the process of trying to give Sherlock's face a rather liberal bath. Sherlock, making no attempt to his hide his disgust, was doing his best to push her away. Lily, being a beagle, was persistent and was not going to give up so easily. She was more than able to get in a few good licks despite his best efforts.

Sherlock spotted Brenna and scowled at the amused smirk he saw on her face. "You had to bring The Dog, didn't you?" He demanded, referring to Lily in the same brusque manner that he always did, refusing to acknowledge that she even had a name.

"You're going to go off on one of your rants again at some point in the evening." Said Brenna, "And if that doesn't happen, you'll be lying on that sofa for I don't know how long staring at the ceiling in complete silence. I'm willing to put up with that, but I like to have someone in this room that is a bit saner than either of us."

"Oh, so you think that your pet beagle saner than I am. Thank you."

"She doesn't talk, and that should give you an idea of how sane I think she is." Seeing that Sherlock wasn't in the mood to hear things her way, she finally relented. "Lily, down."

Lily immediately stopped licking Sherlock's face and jumped down on the floor, though she still remained sitting at Sherlock's feet, staring up at him with her big, brown eyes. "So, what's so important?" asked Brenna, as she shrugged off her coat, "I assume that this has something to do with the case that Lestrade brought you today."

" _A_ case, not _the_ case." said Sherlock, and Brenna could tell by his tone that he was only listening to every other word she was saying, while his mind strayed a dozen different directions at once.

"Right, you'll tell me when you're ready." muttered Brenna, before she spotted something that was entirely out of place with the rest of the flat. She moved into the kitchen, where there was a bright pink suitcase filled with enough clothes for what she assumed to be one night. However, it was the type of clothes which made her raise her eyebrows.

"Sherlock," She turned around, and observed that his arm immediately shot back to his side, as he had been scratching Lily's ears while her back was turned. That was typical of Sherlock; no matter how much he claimed to dislike Lily's presence or how many times he threatened to dissect her (which he would never actually do, because he knew Brenna would skin him alive), he was secretly rather fond of her. Brenna knew that, but she wasn't in the mood to tease Sherlock about it at the moment. "Sherlock, would you mind telling me what a bright pink suitcase is doing in this flat?"

"I brought it here." said Sherlock, as though it should have been the most logical explanation in the world.

"Well, of courses I figured that much out. But why? Is there something that you want to tell me?" Sherlock looked at her in confusion, and it was clear that he didn't quite understand what she was getting at. "I'm just wondering if you've suddenly taken a fancy to wearing bras and skirts."

"What? No, it doesn't have anything to do with that."

"Oh, good. I'm glad to hear that. But, since you're not a closet drag queen, what is it doing here?"

Sherlock's eyes grew excited and he grinned. Brenna recognized that look, and knew that she better settle herself in for a long explanation.

"It's here," said Sherlock, triumphantly, "Because the killer made a mistake."

This launched him into a detailed explanation of what had been going on for the past few hours. The case Lestrade had called him to had indeed been the latest in the current trend of mysterious suicides that had been occurring in London over the past few months. This time it had been a woman, Jennifer Wilson. Sherlock, of course, gave Brenna a short biography of her life's story, but the important thing was the word which she had scratched into the floorboards of the house in her dying moments.

The word had been _rache_ , which Anderson naturally assumed to be the German word for revenge. That was completely wrong according to Sherlock, as it had actually been a name, _Rachel_. The word itself wasn't important to Sherlock at the moment. It wouldn't be until he was able to connect it with the rest of the case. That was the way Sherlock normally operated. He stored up small pieces of seemingly inconsequential information until they somehow managed to fit into the case.

What was truly making him excited now was the pink suitcase. He said that he had been able to deduce that Jennifer had been intending to stay in London for one night, but there hadn't been a case at the house. The killer had kept the suitcase, by mistake, and had quickly gotten rid of it. Of course, Sherlock had been able to find it by diving into every dumpster around the area.

"So, you found the case, why exactly did you bring it here?" asked Brenna, once the stream of his words had stopped. "Oh, no, wait, I already know the answer to that. Everyone on the police staff is an idiot, and wouldn't be able to find the all important clue that you would."

"Exactly," Sherlock enthused, evidently not hearing or choosing not to hear the slight sarcasm in Brenna's voice. "You don't notice anything strange about the contents of the case?"

Brenna shot him a look. "She really liked the color pink for some reason?"

"No, Brenna, look, really look." Brenna rolled her eyes and decided to humor Sherlock, who was by now striding up and down the living room, mind working in overload. "What is the one thing that every person in London has, the one thing that they use every day?"

Brenna shifted through the contents of the case, finding more pink (a color of which she wasn't really fond), but besides that, she did notice something else. "A mobile, there's not one here. A woman like your describing would have had one."

"Exactly," said Sherlock, abruptly changing his pacing and coming up to her, his eyes wild with the manic excitement that always filled him whenever he was in the middle of a case. "No mobile, none on the body, or in the suitcase. Jennifer Wilson was a serial adulterer. She maintained a string of lovers, and she had to be careful and clever about it. That leaves only one possibility as to where it might be."

Brenna stared at Sherlock. "The killer? You think that the killer has her phone? What kind of serial killer would be stupid enough to keep the mobile of someone he killed?"

"I don't know, I haven't been able to figure that out." said Sherlock, obviously more than a little frustrated that that one little detail of the case was eluding him. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. If we can fine that mobile, we'll be able to find the killer."

"Sherlock, even assuming that what you're saying is true, how do you know that the killer still even has her mobile? He could have gotten rid of it along with the suitcase?" She saw the glint in Sherlock's eyes. "Ah, you already have a plan for that to, I see."

"I just need to catch a glimpse of him." Sherlock said, as he renewed his frenetic pacing. "I know what he is, even if I don't know who he might be. The victims were all abducted, but they have nothing in common beyond that. And there were no signs of coercion. They must have trusted their captor, even if they didn't know him."

"Sounds to me like you're laying a trap for him." said Brenna, "Which is crazy; you can't take him by yourself."

"I'm not planning on taking him by myself." Said Sherlock, "But the killer has made two mistakes. If he thinks that someone is on his trail, he might let down his guard..."

"And if you can lure him to a place which you choose, you think he'll come." said Brenna, finishing Sherlock's sentence for him. "How are you going to do that, send him an invitation?"

"Something like that." said Sherlock, with a smirk. He held up the tag which was on the handle of the suitcase. Inside was a slip of paper that that held Jennifer Wilson's contact information. "Her mobile phone number. I'm going to be sending a text. Only problem is, I can't use my number. It's on the website, it might be recognized."

"You think that every serial killer in London looks at your website?" said Brenna, with raised eyebrows.

"Well, wouldn't it make sense for them to know who their competition is?"

Brenna chose not to pursue that line of reasoning. "You can't use mine, Sherlock. My calls can always be monitored. I can't be texting a serial killer. It would look bad for my image."

"I know that." said Sherlock, "Don't worry; I've already taken care of it."

"Oh, really, who did you have in mind?"

"John, of course."

"John?" Brenna suddenly noticed that the man who was Sherlock's potential flat mate was strangely absent. "Sherlock, correct me if I'm wrong, but John doesn't seem to be here. You didn't happen to leave him at the crime scene when you went to go and get the suitcase? If that's the case, you might have scared him away."

"I know I didn't. I've already sent him a message asking him to come. I told him it was dangerous. That will give him an extra incentive to come here as soon as possible. I was right, you know."

"Right about what?"

"It was a good idea to bring him with me. He was quite invaluable at the murder site. I think that we could work quite well together in the future."

"Well, you certainly seem very certain. It seems like you have everything planned out. The only thing I want to know is why you needed me to come here at all."

"Shouldn't it be obvious, even to you? I wanted your company."

"Are you sure that it's not because you wanted someone to hear your deductions and tell you how brilliant you are?"

"So, you're not impressed?"

"No more than I usually am."

"Well, don't worry. I'll have John for that. Do you know, he didn't react the way that people normally do to me."

"You mean, he didn't tell you to piss off when you told him his life story?"

"No, he said it was extraordinary." Sherlock almost seemed surprised by this, which was understandable. Being impressed right from the start was not a reaction that Sherlock was used to. "It made me wonder if perhaps he might not be a good man to have around."

"And did you get anything wrong in your deductions about him?" asked Brenna.

Sherlock knew well what she was referring to, and a look of annoyance passed over his face. "It wasn't his brother who had a drinking problem, it was his sister. Harry, it was short for Harriet."

"Well, you couldn't figure him out entirely by a glance. That says something. But it still doesn't really tell me why you wanted me here."

"And again I say, it should be obvious. I wanted your company and before you say that you're not at my beck and call, allow me to remind you that you just got off a case, so you have nothing better to do. You also brought Lily, and I believe that I spied your sketchbook and pencil set in your hand bag, so you were obviously planning to settle in for a long evening, quite contentedly with me."

Brenna could have been annoyed, and perhaps a little part of her was. But part of the reason why she loved Sherlock was for the very reason that so many found him exasperating. He saw the world so clearly, and he wasn't afraid to say what he saw. He had done so with her right from the start, which was why she knew that she could trust him, and trust was something she hadn't been able to get a lot of in her life. All the years she had spent on the run and hiding, the feeling of trust was something she had started to miss. It had been a most unexpected blessing to find it in Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, you know me to well."

"Do I? I hope that's never proven true. I would hate to know you too well; it would make this whole relationship incredibly boring."

Brenna laughed. "It certainly would."

* * *

 


	8. Flashback III: Beneath the Surface

Flashback III: Beneath the Surface

Suspicions have a way of turning out to be accurate. In the case of the stolen Titians and the murder of Martin Corton, Brenna's suspicions about the less then credible identity of Stella Parker turned out to be correct. No sooner had she told Alice about her meeting with the curator, then the Detective Inspector came back with something of especial interest to Brenna and Sherlock the next day.

"It seems that Stella Parker might match the description of someone known at the Impersonator." She told them.

"You're kidding? I was actually talking to the Impersonator?" At Sherlock's confused expression, Brenna explained, "The Impersonator is a notorious art thief. A few years back, she was responsible for stealing five valuable Matisse's from different art collections around New York. But no one knew they were missing until someone actually realized that the paintings on display were copies."

"The Impersonator targets individual art pieces, most of the time from private collectors." Said Alice, "Unfortunately, she's also very good at covering her tracks."

"Do any of her previous thefts include murder as a side product?" asked Sherlock.

"As a matter of fact, they do. The Impersonator doesn't believe in leaving loose ends lying around." said Alice, "She tends to hire people for each new job, people who are experts at forging the masterpieces she steals. Anyone who shows the slightest hint of betraying her is immediately silenced."

"So it might be plausible to say that she considered the security guard and the gallery worker as voices that needed to be silenced." Said Brenna, "And it would also make sense that someone like her would think it a wise precaution to be armed."

"And you'll love this. We just got back the ballistics report. All the bullets which killed our victims were fired from the same gun. Unfortunately, there's no suspicion attached too Stella Parker's name. On paper, she's legitimate. But if she is the Impersonator, I think it's safe to say that she's not finished yet, especially if she thinks that someone is on her trail."

"That means she'll be making a mistake soon." Said Sherlock, "They always do at this point."

"Stella also alluded to some sort of problem between Martin and his father. Did you find out anything else about that?" asked Brenna.

"You might want to speak to Zoe Taren about that. She was Martin's girlfriend, and it seems that Martin and his father had their disagreements about her. I suppose a son of the peer of the realm isn't good enough for a lowly accountant. You might want to get some answers form her." She handed Brenna the address. "That's where she lives. See what the two of you can learn."

It wasn't exactly a solid lead, but it might also prove to be a new source of information they could use. In the cab that they used to get to the address, Sherlock glanced at Brenna, "You're unusually tense." He observed.

"I guess I am, a little. If the Impersonator is behind this, then I want to catch her." said Brenna, "Her kind doesn't deserve to be on the streets."

"My, it certainly sounds like you've become an advocate for law and justice. Whatever happened to bring about this change?"

"It happened when I found out that art theft isn't all that the Impersonator is suspected of."

"Why should the fact that she's committed murder change your opinion of her?"

"It makes all the difference in the world, Sherlock. It's practically an insult to the profession. It doesn't take any courage or brains to shoot someone while on a job. The real craft of being a thief comes from being able to get away with anything without anyone even knowing you're there. Murdering people is too easy."

Sherlock regarded her for a moment. This was a part of her that he didn't often see. He was perfectly aware of her past, but rarely did she allow herself to become so emotional about it. Brenna was very effective at projecting a persona to the world, and sometimes, what she projected to the world was not always the truth. He was one of the very few who could see behind that mask. It was because he was so good at wearing them himself.

"You are aware, of course, that most people who are thieves don't necessarily share your views?"

"Yes, perhaps. But I'm a special case, I suppose. I saw a person shot and killed while on a job once. I made a promise to myself that I would never do the same."

"And yet, you still did those hits." said Sherlock, "Logic would dictate that after such a traumatic event, you would have stopped."

"When have you ever known me to be directed by logic?" said Brenna, "The truth is, I never really got the idea to stop. When I was stealing something, when I was on the run, it was such a high that I found it hard to let go of." She looked at Sherlock. "Pulling a con is like an addiction. It takes hitting bottom to finally realize that it's not worth it. I don't expect you to understand, but that's how it is."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, as if considering what she said. Then, he said, "I do actually understand that."

Brenna looked at him, and saw that he did indeed understand. And what was more, he did not judge her for it. It was a far cry from the reaction that she normally would have gotten from anyone else. But then again, should she be so surprised that Sherlock did understand? He also lived for the high and rush of risk. Indeed, Brenna was fairly certain that he would risk going to the very brink of death in order to satisfy the need to challenge his mind. Because of that, he was judged, oftentimes unfairly. Even Brenna had thought that the comments of people like Anderson and Donavon were unnecessarily cruel. It was his arrogance that she had found difficult to put up with, not his intellect.

People judged both her and Sherlock for the things that they had done and did, without really seeing why they did it. They had both needed to find ways in which to cope with that. Sherlock simply shut down his emotions so that he wouldn't have to deal with them. Brenna mainly dealt with it by either ignoring it, or when that failed, sarcastically barbed comments worked just as well. She and Sherlock were more alike than might at first be thought. Brenna wasn't sure if such a conclusion should worry her.

They arrived at Zoe's house a few minutes later, and the interview began. Zoe was understandably distraught by the death of Martin. At first, she didn't think there was anything that she could tell them. "I've already talked to the police." She told them, her voice was hoarse from crying and her eyes were red. "I don't know anyone who would want to kill Martin. I don't know anything."

"We aren't necessarily here to talk to you about that." said Brenna.

"We wanted to know the reason why Sir Richard disapproved of your relationship with his son." said Sherlock, "Isn't it true that he and Martin weren't speaking to each other because of you?"

"What?" cried Zoe, staring at Sherlock with astonishment. And Brenna shot him a withering glare. No doubt, Sherlock had no idea what he had done.

"What Sherlock is trying to say," she said, hoping that she salvage the interview before Zoe shut down on them completely. "is that according to the information which we have been hearing in this case, it seems that Sir Richard and Martin were having some kind of disagreement, and that you, unfortunately, were caught in the middle of it. Truth be told, any information might help to point us in the right direction."

Zoe looked down, and it was clear that the subject caused her no small amount of awkwardness and pain. "It is true. I know that Sir Richard didn't approve of me. Martin told me a month ago that they weren't even speaking to each other. But, I thought that things were getting better. Jacob told me that they were trying to reach a common ground."

"Jacob? You mean Martin's younger brother?" said Brenna. Zoe nodded.

"Tell me, was Jacob trying to bring about reconciliation?" Sherlock asked.

"I think he was. Even though Jacob thought that Martin was right, he was somehow who was able to talk to both of them. Martin actually told me that he had convinced their father to at least meet me. But, honestly, I don't what to think anymore. I haven't seen much of Jacob in the last few weeks, and whenever I have, he's always seemed strangely distracted."

Both Brenna and Sherlock looked at each other. They were both drawing the same conclusion. If Jacob was apparently so supportive of Zoe and Martin's relationship, it was slightly strange that he hadn't been in touch with Zoe. What did that prove? Nothing perhaps, but considering how much they both knew about human nature, it was enough to arouse their suspicion.

"Well, if you can think of anything else," said Brenna, "Please don't hesitate to tell us." Zoe nodded, assuming that the real interview was at an end, but Brenna still had one last question to ask. "Oh, one last thing, Miss Taren, that Tintoretto over your mantelpiece, its exquisite work. Do you mind if I asked where you obtained it?"

"Oh, I didn't actually buy that." said Zoe, "And it's not a genuine Tintoretto. It was painted by Jacob."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's something of a hobby with him, copying all the old masters."

"I know the feeling; we all need something to relax us. Thank you for your time, Miss Taren, you've been most helpful."

As the two of them left the flat, Sherlock stole a glance at Brenna. "You knew that painting wasn't actually a Tintoretto from the start, didn't you?"

"Of course, I know a good copy when I see it. And you have to admit that it would be difficult for an accountant like Zoe to purchase a genuine Tintoretto, even a copy like that. It had to have been a gift. Tintoretto was a near contemporary with Titian. He was influenced by him and he was from Venice. Does all this not seem a little convenient to you?"

"The stolen Titians." said Sherlock, as the pieces began to fall into place. "If Jacob is so good at painting one master from that time period, it's safe to say that he could do another."

"That's the way most copyists work." Said Brenna, "They can't afford to make mistakes on multiple styles, so they really focus on one era or master."

Sherlock looked at her. "You don't do that. You can fake a Titian or a Monet with hardly anyone noticing the difference."

"I'm good at multi-tasking." replied Brenna, "Truth be told, though, my Impressionism is probably better than my Renaissance masters from Venice. You didn't hear that from me, though. Anyway, it seems like to much of a coincidence that Jacob makes a hobby out of copying the works of Venetian Renaissance artists, and we happen to find a fake painting at the crime scene of his older brother."

"Than he might be the next person that we need to talk to." Said Sherlock.

"Yes. We're going to have to talk to Alice and figure out-"

Before Brenna could finish her sentence, Sherlock suddenly grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her into a side alley. Brenna was completely startled by the action, but Sherlock cut off her annoyed reaction. "We're being followed." He said, in a low voice, "Ever since we left Zoe's. Tall man, dark jeans, black jacket, sunglasses."

"What? How did you know?"

"The sunglasses." Said Sherlock, "They always give followers away. The idiots seem to think that just because people can't see their eyes, it makes them invisible."

"And just when were you going to tell me this?"

"I couldn't have you giving away that were being followed."

"I wouldn't have done that. I know how to keep myself together under these situations."

"Well, you weren't even aware of it until I told you, and when I pulled you into this alley, you nearly gave us away with your reaction, so forgive me if I don't entirely believe you. Now be quiet before he finds us."

Brenna was about to say that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she never got the chance. Sherlock had caught sight of the man who had been following them, and he quickly pushed Brenna into the wall, shielding her from view with his body. She wasn't happy about such rough treatment, but she highly doubted that Sherlock would have cared about her personal comfort at the moment.

The seconds ticked by, and as they did so, both Sherlock and Brenna began to notice a strange undercurrent of sparking energy that they had not been aware of before. Their close contact caused feelings long buried or denied to start to coming to the surface. All Brenna could focus on was Sherlock and how close he was to her. It was not an uncommon thing to find herself in such close proximity to him. They had actually been in much more awkward positions then this. But it had never really affected her quite like this before.

Strange, she had known him for two years, yet she had never really noticed the little physical signs about him that made him so intriguing. She had never noticed how sharp and yet, how strangely beautiful his eyes were. Sherlock had a very particular scent about him, one that smelled of old, musty books, chemicals from his various experiments, and something else that she could never really identify, a scent that just seemed to be his own. She didn't know why, but right now, at this moment, she found it intoxicating.

It didn't really help matters that Sherlock seemed to be standing unnecessarily close to her, all these intriguing elements of him were swirling around her, in what was quickly becoming an enthralling mix.

Brenna was not the only one who was being so strangely affected. Sherlock also found himself beginning to be drawn into something that he had never before experienced: the dangerous echoes of physical attraction.

Sherlock's hands were planted on either side of her body, and his eyes had been drawn from watching the man who had been following them, to look into her face. It was an almost unconscious move on his part, and one that he couldn't completely explain. He had never thought of Brenna as particularly pretty. He had told her several times point blank that if she wanted to find a romantic attachment, she wouldn't be able to rely on her looks. But, at this very moment, he couldn't deny that there were some parts of her that could be deemed attractive. The dark blond hair, always held back, looked unnaturally soft and he imagined that it would be quite lovely if she ever chose to let it down. Her eyes were light and green, and were always dancing or sparking with some sort of smart retort or new idea. In that way, her eyes were very much like his own.

His attention was drawn back to her hair. For some reason that he could not possibly begin to fathom, he found himself wondering if her hair was really as soft as it looked. Before he could stop himself, he reached out a hand and brushed it through some of the strands.

The gesture caught her attention and she raised her eyes to meet his. Their gazes locked, and something passed between them, a shot of electricity that neither of them could deny, even if they could not yet admit that they had felt it. In that moment, they began to understand just what was going on, and more than anything else, it frightened them.

And yet, something still drew them together, closer and closer, until they were mere breaths apart. But, at that very moment, a loud car horn from a passing cab destroyed the fragile and tense situation.

Immediately, Sherlock took two steps back, banishing all emotions which the close encounter had stirred within him from his face. Brenna was not able to get control of herself so easily. She was short of breath, and was sure that her heart was hammering so loud that Sherlock could have no trouble hearing it. She couldn't believe it. She had almost kissed Sherlock Holmes. That was something which she was sure he would not let her forget.

What made it almost worse was that she could tell by that cold, detached look on his face that he hadn't been affected in the same way that she had. The last thing she wanted to hear was a lecture on controlling her emotional reactions, so as soon as she could speak coherently, she said, "Well, is he gone?"

Sherlock, despite what his calm exterior showed was just as confused as Brenna as to what had occurred. He shouldn't be doing things like this. In fact, he should be feeling anything like this. He had known her for two years. The last thing he should have felt was any sort of attraction. But not even he could deny the roiling of suddenly awkward emotions in his heart. He hadn't been planning on lecturing Brenna. Right now, all he wanted was to get away from her.

Glancing quickly into the street, he didn't see any sign of their follower. "Yes, I believe so."

Though the encounter had left her feeling confused and flustered, Brenna still had the presence of mind to see what needed to be done. "I'll call Bennett; tell her to get someone out here. If Stella is having Zoe watched, she might be in danger."

"In that case, if you don't need anything else from me, I'll be on my way." said Sherlock. He knew his leaving seemed abrupt, but at the moment, he simply didn't want to be in Brenna's presence anymore; it was to confusing and distracting.

"No, I don't think that I do. You can go." Said Brenna, almost too quickly. The previous five minutes had aroused too many bewildering, intoxicating emotions to be comfortable anymore.

Sherlock did not seem to be affected by her tone. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Brenna nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll text you tomorrow when I have something." And hopefully, it will be back to normal between us, she added silently. She didn't think that she could take much more of this.

He turned and began walking down the street. Brenna watched him for perhaps longer than was necessary, until she realized what she was doing and shook herself. She called for a cab that would take her back to the Yard. Had she only lingered a few seconds longer, she might have seen Sherlock slow, then stop, before casting one fleeting glance over his shoulder. He just caught her getting into a cab, and knew that this was all absurd. He turned his eyes back to the front, and continued on his way.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review.
> 
> Next chapter: More John Watson, as he delves deeper into the craziness that is Sherlock and Brenna's world.


	9. Nicotine Patches and Suicases

Nicotine Patches and Suitcases:

_PRESENT DAY_

It had been little more than 45 minutes since Sherlock had sent his text to John. In the interim, there was little that either of them could do except wait. Waiting with Sherlock could entail any number of situations, but this time, it involved Sherlock settling into the sofa and lapsing into one of his Zen-like states, from which Brenna was quite certain that not even a bomb going off in the street outside the window could have roused him.

Brenna, anticipating a long interlude of silence, had come prepared. She had brought her sketchbook with her, and she filled up her time with that, with Lily curled up at her feet. It was a scene that had been repeated many times over the last six months, and it was strangely domestic in its own way. Brenna had gotten used to it. She even found it restful at times.

John Watson, however, was not necessarily prepared for what would be awaiting him when he entered the living room of the flat. And he certainly hadn't counted on the beagle which immediately jumped to her feet and scurried over to meet this latest arrival.

"Lily, no." said Brenna, as she got to her feet and went over to her dog. "What have I told you about jumping on strangers?"

"No, she's fine." said John, who bent down offering one of his hands for Lily to sniff. Lily did so, and after two seconds she apparently decided that John was one of her friends for life, and proceeded to give the hand a few licks for good measure. John actually managed to smile a little. "Is she yours?"

"Yes, she is." said Brenna, "She already likes you. You must be something of a dog lover at heart."

"I do like dogs, actually. We always had one growing up. Haven't been able to have one in the last few years because of, well, everything else."

"I understand. Lily is invaluable. She's the one link to sanity that I have when it comes to dealing with Sherlock.

Speaking of Sherlock, he hadn't so much as opened one eye since John came into the room. As he turned his attention to the prone Consulting Detective, he saw that Sherlock had something on his arm. "What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch." said Sherlock, "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"Good news for breathing, though."

"Ugh, breathing," said Sherlock, with no small amount of contempt. "Breathing's boring."

"Is that three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem."

John looked at Brenna, as if expecting some sort of explanation, but he received nothing beyond an expression of hopeless exasperation. Turning back to Sherlock, he said, "Well? It took me an hour to get here, I assume it's important."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, as if just remembering why he had needed John to come in the first place. "Oh yeah, can I borrow your phone?"

Of all the things that could have come out of Sherlock's mouth, this was perhaps the last thing John would have predicted. "My phone?" He questioned, in slight disbelief.

"Don't want to use mine, there's always the chance the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, but she's downstairs, I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"I was the other side of London." Said John, in obvious annoyance.

"There was no hurry." Said Sherlock, quite calmly.

John looked at Brenna. "You're his girlfriend. Can't he use yours?"

"Partner." Said Sherlock, abruptly switching topic.

"What?"

"She's my partner. Not my girlfriend." Said Sherlock, as if the distinction should have been obvious.

John was about to ask what the difference was, before he thought better of it. "And the reason you can't use her phone is because?"

"You never know who might be watching the phone records." said Brenna, "In my case, that's attention attention I'd rather not attract."

John really had no ideas what she was talking about, and found himself wondering for the umpteenth time that night if he had stumbled onto a den of lunatics we he had arrived at 221B. Nevertheless, he produced his phone and held it out to Sherlock. He had obviously meant for Sherlock to take it from him, but the Consulting Detective, without even breaking posture lifted one hand, clearly intending John to put it there for him. Burying a frustrating sigh, he slapped the phone in Sherlock's hand. "So, what's this about, the case?"

"Her case." said Sherlock, in his Zen-like state.

"Her case?"

"The suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suit case, first big mistake."

"Okay, so he took her case, so?"

"It's no use, there's no other way we'll have to risk it." Sherlock directed his attention to John. "On my desk, there's a number, I want you to send a text."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief, before repeating very slowly. "You brought me here to send a text?"

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Said Sherlock, his tone a bit more insistent than before.

John rolled his eyes, and grabbed the phone from Sherlock's waiting hand. As he was going to the desk, he took a quick peek out the window to see if that black car was still there.

Brenna noticed that John was looking intently out of the window. "Looking for anyone special?" she inquired.

"I just met a friend of Sherlock's." said John.

Sherlock's eyes opened again and he seemed rather disbelieving at the word. "A friend?"

"An enemy." John amended.

That seemed to suit Sherlock much better. "Oh, which one?"

"Well, your arch enemy, according to him. Do people have arch enemies?"

"They do in Sherlock's world." said Brenna, "Let me guess, black car, annoying girl with a phone, secret location, mysterious man with an umbrella?"

John was surprised. "Yes, actually. How did you know?"

"Six months on, and you'd think he would have found some new material." muttered Brenna.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John answered, after a moment.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

John was somewhat taken aback by this. "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number."

John decided that it was futile to pursue this line of questioning. It was probably best to focus on the matter at hand. However, he knew that both Sherlock and Brenna were more aware of this man than they were letting on. He would remember that, and be certain to check it out later.

Going over to Sherlock's desk, he took out his phone and was just getting ready to put in the number, when he saw the name on the tag which was on the desk. "Jennifer Wilson? Isn't that the woman-?"

"Yes, that's the not important. Just enter the number." John stifled a curse, and began to enter the number. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah, hang on." Said John, in frustration.

"Sherlock, don't try and expect lightening quick reactions from everyone you meet. What have I told you about that?" said Brenna, in a lightly chiding tone.

Sherlock seemed to have no good answer to this, as he ignored her completely. "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St. Please come.'"

John had been typing in the message, but he paused and looked at Sherlock in evident confusion. "You blacked out?"

This finally seemed to jolt Sherlock out of his composed state. "What? No, no." He finally moved for the first time in an hour. He got to his feet, and with the manic energy that always gripped him when he was in the middle of a case, he took the shortest way possible to get from the couch to the kitchen, which involved stepping on the the coffee table in front of the couch rather than moving around it as any normal person would have. He somehow managed to do all of this while speaking in his usual rapid fire manner. "Type and send it, quickly." He grabbed the bright pink suitcase on the chair, and came back into the living room. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

"22 Northumberland St. Hurry up." barked Sherlock impatiently. He quickly placed the suitcase on one of the chairs, and unzipped it. John had sent the text, and when he turned to Sherlock to speak again, he was stunned to see the suitcase. He knew instinctively that it could only be the suitcase which Sherlock had been so intent on finding at the crime scene.

"That's… That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously."

Sherlock was so intent on the matter at hand, that he had so absolutely no idea how this must have looked to John. Brenna, seeing John's split second flash of uncertainty, said, "Sherlock, you might want to tell John what you did when you left him at the crime scene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated that he had to go through this sort of thing, yet again. "Oh, perhaps I should mention," he said, sarcastically, "I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send, and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

John had to admit that for all Sherlock's irritation, he certainly wasn't acting like a guilty man. He cast a glance at Brenna. "Let me put it this way, would I be here if Sherlock was a serial killer?" She asked, pointedly.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" John asked.

Sherlock, after a pause, smirked. "Now and then, yes." He almost seemed proud of the fact, which didn't really make John feel any better.

"Ok," he said, after a moment, as he really could think of nothing else to say. He figured it might be best to not think of Sherlock as a serial killer. Something told him that that could lead to some very unpleasant scenarios. "How did you get this?"

"By looking." replied Sherlock, as though it should have been obvious.

"Where?" asked John, as he sat down in one of the chairs.

"We know that the killer drove her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. No one could be seen with a case like this without attracting attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely, so obviously he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he still had it, wouldn't have taken him anymore than five minutes to figure out his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "Pink? You got all that because you'd figured the case would be pink?"

"Well, it would have to be pink, obviously." Sherlock really couldn't see how John had missed such an evidently obvious fact, when, in reality, no one would have seen it except himself.

"Why didn't I think of that?" John half muttered.

"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock immediately said. At John's rather perturbed expression, Sherlock waved him off with the comforting statement, "No, no, don't be like that, practically everyone is."

"John, don't let Sherlock put you off." said Brenna, "He's said the same thing to me hundreds of times."

John looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, Sherlock always insults people that he likes by calling them idiots. It's his way of expressing friendship."

She said it as though it didn't bother her at all; either that, or she was just incredibly used to it. John was unsure how to react to this. These two were truly unlike any couple that he had ever experienced.

"Could we get back to the subject at hand?" said Sherlock, who didn't like having his flow of ideas, interrupted mid-way through. "Do you see what's missing?"

"What? From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone, where's her mobile phone? There was no mobile phone on the body. There's no phone in the case. we know that she had one. You just texted it."

"She could have left it at home."

Sherlock shook his head. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it, she never leaves her phone at home." He was silent for a moment, before he looked at John with a meaningful smile on his face.

John was beginning to realize that he had just done something that was completely out of the ordinary. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes, or?"

"The murderer?" said John, in slight disbelief, "You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case, maybe he took it from her from some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is that the murderer has her phone."

It all became clear to John when he said this, and he couldn't believe what he had just done. "Sorry… what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?"

"You mean that's not something you do on a regular basis?" said Brenna, "Believe me, if you hang out with Sherlock enough, you'll be doing stranger things then this. Not only that, you'll get used to it."

"Oh, thank you, that makes me feel much better. But what good will it do?" No sooner were the words out of his mouth, then John's phone rang. The screen said that the number was withheld. John was totally astonished; it had actually worked.

Sherlock, when he saw the screen of John's phone, knew that he was on the right track. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that could only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they would ignore a text like that, but the murderer would panic."

Brenna's phone went off at this exact moment, causing both Sherlock and John to look at her in surprise. They had been so intent on getting to the bottom of one mobile that the idea that there might be another in the room came as something of a surprise.

"Bennett is texting me." said Brenna, as she got to her feet.

"Are you leaving now?" Sherlock asked her, looking slightly petulant, "Things are just getting interesting."

"Sorry, Sherlock. Duty calls. I'm sure that you'll figure it out, you have John after all. Let's not forget how invaluable you said that he was at the last crime scene."

John was completely stunned when he heard this. He hadn't done anything at the crime scene which he considered particularly helpful, yet by the slightly annoyed and embarrassed look on Sherlock's face, it was quite clear that Brenna was spot on.

"Did you have to bring that up?" Sherlock muttered, and it was quite clear that he would have preferred it if she hadn't.

"Just keeping it real, Sherlock." Said Brenna, as she leashed Lily. "Call me, I have a feeling that you'll get a break through tonight."

Once Brenna was gone, John turned to Sherlock. "Who was that that just texted Brenna?"

"The woman who holds her on a leash, but occasionally allows her a little bit of freedom."

John had absolutely no idea what Sherlock had just said, but he didn't get a chance to ask what he meant. Sherlock was already up and moving. It was clear that he had some sort of purpose in mind; otherwise, he wouldn't have gone through all this nonsense. "About this text, have you spoken to the police?"

"Four people are dead; there isn't time to talk to the police."

"So, why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, without Brenna here and Mrs. Hudson having taken my skull, you're the next best thing."

"So, I'm basically filling in for your girlfriend and your skull." said John.

"Partner, remember." said Sherlock, "I will admit, you're not the best replacement when it comes to her, but than again, that would be too much to ask of anyone. But on the other point, you can relax, you're doing just fine."

John wasn't quite sure if he should be taking that as a compliment. It wasn't the sort of thing that one heard everyday in praise, but something told him that Sherlock meant him to take it in the best light.

"Well?" asked Sherlock, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Well, what?"

"Well, you could just sit there, and watch telly."

"You want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention." He saw John trying to fight back a smile. "Problem?"

"Sgt. Donavon."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He evidently didn't like it when she was brought into the conversation. "What about her?"

"She said you get off on this, that you enjoy it."

If that was meant to be as a critique, Sherlock had one better for John. Considering how many people had told him to stay away for his own safety (including the normal routine of being kidnapped, which was becoming tiresome. He would have to speak to the perpetrator about the incidents), John had still come when he had said one little word. "And I said dangerous, and here you are." Sherlock beamed him a triumphant smirk, before disappearing out the door.

John sat for a few seconds in silence, hating to admit that the man with the umbrella had been right. He really did miss pointing himself in the line of fire. "Damn it!" He muttered, as he scrambled to his feet, following Sherlock Holmes and all the possible dangers he represented.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review.
> 
> Next chapter: The case of the Impersonator is finally wrapped up. However, the ending of the case marks a new beginning in Brenna and Sherlock's relationship, especially when an intimate moment makes them aware of feelings that can no longer be easily denied.


	10. Flashback IV: Realizations

Flashback IV: Realizations

_Six months previously..._

  
When Sherlock and Brenna were thrown together once more, it was at the townhouse of Jacob Corton, where the case would finally be wrapped up. Alice had managed to secure Zoe Taren's protection, and it had come not a moment to soon. Sherlock's senses had proven to be spot on yet again. Zoe's flat had been broken into that night, and only the timely intervention of the officers stationed there had prevented her from being kidnapped.

Under questioning, one of the intruders had revealed that they had been told to kidnap Zoe, and hold her hostage until Jacob had arrived with the ransom, which just happened to be the two genuine Titans. Alice had seen a way to use this to her advantage. Jacob obviously had the Titans somewhere in his townhouse; all they needed to do was find them, and what better way to do that to go undercover.

It must be admitted that neither Sherlock nor Brenna were particularly thrilled when they heard that Alice had recruited the two of them to take the place of the Impersonator's followers in order to get their hands on the Titians. The emotions which had been aroused by their last encounter had not faded. They still roiled beneath the surface, and seeing each other again would do nothing to help them fade.

Alice, Lestrade and the rest of her team were already waiting for the signal to move in. All they needed to do was find the paintings. Of course, that meant they needed to get past Jacob. Fortunately, both Sherlock and Brenna together had the skills to get past him, hopefully, without arousing any sort of suspicion.

The performance began as they stood outside the door, and Jacob answered it. He looked a great deal like his brother, but the fear on his face was evident. And it wasn't just fear for himself.

"Where's Zoe?" asked Jacob.

"You don't need to worry about her." said Sherlock, playing his part rather admirably. Brenna had often teased Sherlock by calling him a bad liar, though that was mostly because she was so adept at picking up a deception on anyone. However, she could grudging call him an actor as herself.  She didn't really want to think about what he might have been if he had allowed his darker side to rule that amazing brain of his. He might have turned to be a real psychopath. "She is in the custody of some of our employer's other agents, and once you deliver what you agreed on, than she will be returned to you."

"I just want Zoe safe." said Jacob, sounding genuinely concerned for Zoe's fate, "I'll give you one of the paintings, but then I want to make sure that Zoe is actually alive. Personally, I'm beginning to question the role that your boss had in killing my brother."

"If you value your safety, or that of Miss Taren's," said Brenna, with the bored tone of someone who had seen so many people being killed that the thought of one more did not bother her in the slightest, "You will keep your mouth shut about your suspicions. Just finish your side of the bargain, and you will not be hearing from our employer again."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door. "Who is that?" Brenna asked, "You said that no one would be interrupting us."

Jacob's face went a shade paler as he looked out the door and saw who it was. "It's my father. I don't know what he's doing here, honest."

"Just get him out of here." said Brenna, "We don't have time for this."

"Do you have some place where we can wait?" Sherlock demanded, "I think that our employer would rather keep this between the three of us, without any outside intervention."

Jacob pointed down the hall. "Down there, second room on the left. That's where my studio is. You can hide there until my father leaves. I think I can get him to leave quickly."

"You had better make that a guarantee." said Sherlock, in an admirable accent of coldness, "If not, Miss Taren's days are numbered."

Jacob's studio was covered with the tools of the trade: easels, brushes, and paints. The walls were covered with copies of Renaissance masters centered on the city of Venice. All of them bore the tell tale brush strokes and color composition of the Titian forgery they had found at Martin's house, as well as the Tintoretto at Zoe's.

"The paintings are in here." said Sherlock.

"For once, I'm not going to argue with your deductions. You can always tell an artist's wealth by where he puts his paintings." Said Brenna, "And regardless of what else Jacob Corton might claim to be, he is an artist above all else."

Brenna quickly texted Alice, telling her that they had made contact and that they would son be having the Titians. They needed a distraction right at that moment, so if she could come up with anything that would be good.

"And no doubt he would want to keep the Titians in a place where he felt they would be safe, but would also be respected." said Sherlock, as she was sending the text.

"But none of the paintings are Titians." Said Brenna, "And there's no place to hide them in the room, nothing that would indicate a safe. They must be behind one of the paintings."

"Quite unoriginal." said Sherlock.

"True, but effective. The frames are bolted onto the walls, and we don't have time to try and get them all loose. Whatever choice we make, it's going to have to be the right one."

The two of them inspected the paintings as hurriedly as they could. Even now, there was an element of competition in their working relationship, each one wanting to be the one who would break the case first. However, this time, it would prove to be at nearly the exact same moment that they both got the answer they were looking for.

"It's this one." said Sherlock, pointing to one painting.

"This one." said Brenna, indicating a different painting.

They both paused and looked at each other. "How can you tell?" asked Brenna.

"The screws holding the frame have recently been loosened and then tightened again." said Sherlock, "There are also scratches along the wall, indicating where the painting used to hang. It's been moved minutely when the painting was put back on. What makes you think that one?"

"The artist who inspired this painting was a near contemporary of Titian. He studied with him, was inspired with him." She took a closer look at the painting which Sherlock had chosen. "And come to think of it, so is this one."

"It makes sense." Said Sherlock, "It protects the painting, while paying a tribute to the artist."

"It's as good a deduction as any." Said Brenna, "You take one, I'll take the other. I assume that you know how to remove one of these frames?"

"Seems simple enough." Said Sherlock, "Do you know how?" Brenna gave him an exasperated look. "Of course, you do."

"Of course, I do. That was the most unnecessary question that I've ever heard you ask. This is simple compared to the museum settings I've had to deal with."

"Then we should probably get to work." Said Sherlock.

They worked as quickly and as silently as they were able to. There was no telling how long Jacob might be with his father, and they both wanted to make sure that they got the evidence that they needed before Alice could move in. Brenna managed to get her frame taken care of with all the swiftness of past experience. Sure enough, under the painting was the Titian, the original this time, quite obviously.

She looked across at Sherlock and sighed in frustration. He wasn't doing terribly, but it was quite clear that stealing paintings from their frames had never been one of his hobbies. "Sherlock, honestly," she said, as she came towards him, "Let me help you."

"I can do it myself." Sherlock said, defensively.

"Stop behaving like a three year old, Sherlock, or we'll never get this finished." Without waiting for Sherlock to express an opinion, she shoved herself in-between him and the painting, working on the screws which he had managed to loosen, but not completely undo. "Brace the top for me, Sherlock." She said, once she had finally loosened the screws. "The frame on this thing is heavier than the other; I'm going to need your help to get it down without damaging the Titian on the other side."

Sherlock, though a little miffed at being shown up, nonetheless reached above her to help her lower the frame to the ground. "Two for two." Said Brenna, when the frame was lowered to reveal the second missing Titan on the other side. "We need to get-"

She had turned around while she was speaking, intending to tell Sherlock that they needed to get Alice in here while they still had time, but the words died on her lips, when she realized that Sherlock had literally been standing only a few inches behind her, and that the act of her turning around, had brought her dangerously close to him. And when that happened, all conscious thought left them, and all they could focus on was each other.

Looking into each other's eyes, they felt the same spark, the same connection. Only now, for some reason, they realized just how deep it went, and how long it had been there.

It was hard to say what moved in their thoughts during this time. Even Sherlock, with his intensely analytical mind, was hard-pressed afterwards to put into words just what he was feeling. The very idea of feeling and trust were quite strange to them both; it is little wonder that words and rational thought failed them.

But actions can sometimes speak louder than words ever could. Brenna knew that something was happening that had never happened before. Her first instinct was always to embrace the new, and see how well she could fit it into any situation. She understood the emotion a little better than Sherlock. It was perhaps no surprise that it was she who made the first move.

It was fortunate that she acted more on instinct, than actual thought, because if she had had time in which to think, she probably wouldn't have kissed Sherlock. But, one moment, she had gone from staring at him, to kissing him. She was almost stunned herself at what she was doing, but once she had started, she found that she didn't want to stop. This was hardly her first kiss, and yet it was the first in which she found herself truly caring. The connection that she had with Sherlock right here and now was suddenly the most important thing in the world, the only thing that really mattered. It just felt right to be with him in this way, and she realized that she didn't want it to end.

All of these emotions burst upon her in the space of perhaps two seconds, to say nothing of what it physically felt like. But, at the same time, a small part of her mind was panicking. What on Earth was she doing? She was kissing Sherlock Holmes? She had surely lost whatever sanity she had left. She realized that even if he wasn't pulling away, he really wasn't reciprocating in any way. He just seemed frozen. It was foolish, of course, to think that Sherlock, of all people, would want any sort of romantic entanglement. He had demonstrated time and time again that he had no use for emotions, as cold and detached as he always was.

Her line of thought was abruptly cut off, when Sherlock suddenly took a step closer to her, and began pressing his lips against hers. Brenna did know a lot about Sherlock, but even she had a few things to learn about him. One of the most important was that where Sherlock was concerned, it always helped to expect the unexpected.

For Sherlock, the wealth of emotions that Brenna's actions unleashed were strange, frightening, overwhelming, but not necessarily foreign or impossible. He had been aroused in his suspicions by their previous close encounter. He knew that something about Brenna's presence had caused him to react emotionally, and that she was the only one who had ever done such a thing. At first, he had thought it strange. But, when he had allowed himself to think about all the factors, his mind had actually found that it all made perfect sense.

It all rested on what his relationship with Brenna was like. It was unique, and unlike any other he had ever experienced. Brenna was really the only one who was his equal, not in intellect, and she had never tried to equal his skill in deduction. Rather, she was his equal because she understood him, and she accepted him for who he was. She had never judged him. True, she had accused him of being an egotistical jerk on more than one occasion. But, she never judged him according to his abilities. She had even admitted quite freely on many occasions that she admired him for that, and what he chose to do with them.

It wasn't that Sherlock minded the insults to his face and whispers behind his back. He had grown used to them. But at the same time, it was refreshing to find someone who didn't treat him like a freak of nature. In the case of Brenna, he found that it was beginning to mean just a little more.

Had he been friends with Brenna? Well, he had trusted her; certainly he trusted her more than many members of his own family. Brenna had always been there for him, even in their more tempestuous moments. He didn't have much experience with friends, but he supposed that he did believe Brenna to be his friend.

And if she was his friend, for all those same reasons, could it just be that he had developed feelings for her, perhaps even love? It just might be possible. After all, when one eliminated the obvious, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. And even if he would have liked to deny it, Sherlock had built his whole life around observing what other people might have ignored. At this moment, he knew that he was feeling all the physical signs of desire. He couldn't deny how much he enjoyed it when Brenna kissed him, nor the fact that he wanted to return it.

He only paused because the sensation was new to him, and it had been one that he had never felt before. He hadn't known that Brenna was going through the same thing he was. But, the fact that she had made the first move it might be a good indication that she was feeling the same things.

So, it actually came from a very logical progression of thought that Sherlock found himself stepping forward, returning the pressure that Brenna was pressing to his lips. One hand moved to rest lightly on her waist, while the other went to cradle the back of her head. It was a timeless moment, and one that would change their lives forever.

Neither of them really knew what ended it. But when the parted, they looked straight into each other's eyes, and for a moment, there was no deception there, only the truth that now neither could deny.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but what that was, Brenna never discovered. For they had been so wrapped up in each other, that they hadn't heard that someone was approaching the studio, not until they heard the sound of the door opening.

They jumped apart by about two feet, and it seemed to the untrained eye as though nothing had passed between Sherlock and Brenna. It was Jacob, looking even more harried and anxious than he had when he had let them in. "I have my father distracted, but it won't be for long…." His voice trailed off, when he came into the room, and saw that the two paintings revealed, and the frames which had been covering them on the floor. He stared at the paintings, and then his gaze looked up at them. "What's going on here? Who are you two?"

"I'm afraid that they're with me." same the voice of Alice, behind Jacob.

"Alice, you're timing is impeccable, as always." said Brenna.

Lestrade and Sir Richard were also with Alice, and Sir Richard did not look particularly pleased with the presence of police in yet another of his son's flats. "Inspector, would you mind telling me what you're doing here? There is no reason for you to be investigating my son."

"I'm afraid that there might be actually." Said Lestrade, "The evidence seems to speak for itself if those are the Titians which you reported missing."

It was only at this moment that Richard saw the paintings. The sight gave him such a shock that he wasn't able to speak for a few moments.

"In that case, I'm afraid that I have to tell you are under arrest, Jacob Corton," said Alice, "You're charged with the crimes of art theft, as well as suspicion of the murder of your brother. You do have the right to remain silent, but considering the present circumstances, I don't think it will do you much good."

Sir Richard had been watching this entire scene with shock and disbelief. "Inspector, are you insane? Do you have any idea what you are accusing my son of?"

But Jacob already knew that he was caught. "Dad, they're right."

Richard turned his attention to Jacob, "What?"

"They're right, at least in the area of art theft. But I didn't kill Martin. I didn't even know that she was planning on killing anyone."

"She?" said Alice, "I assume that you mean Stella Parker?"

Jacob nodded. "Yes, she was the one who organized this whole thing. I was the one who in charge of making sure that no one knew that the Titians had been stolen until it was too late."

"And what role did Martin play in all this, if you don't mind me asking?" asked Brenna.

"He was the one who financed it." Jacob admitted.

Richard was having an understandably hard time hearing that both of his sons had apparently turned on him, for no apparent reason that he could see. "Jacob, why? I've always given you and Jacob everything you ever needed."

"Dad, don't you see? This had nothing to do with money. Martin didn't even want to take any of the cut that Stella would be getting from selling those Titians. Neither did I. But Martin knew that you valued your art works, so he knew that hurting you there would be the worst thing he could do to you. He wanted to steal those Titians to get back at you for rejecting Zoe."

"So, you helped Stella steal the Titians." said Sherlock, "The paintings were in storage, and no one would have noticed the switch until she was far away. But then, something went wrong, didn't it?"

"Stella figured out that there was a leak somewhere." said Jacob, "She killed the security guard who got us into the museum without being seen, and the gallery attendant who agreed that she would continue to vouch for the authenticity of the Titians. It must have been one of those two who told the police about the operation."

"Actually no," said Sir Richard, "It was Martin who first told me that the Titians had been stolen. But, why would he try to steal them, and then tell me what was going on?"

"Because you said that you would give Zoe a chance." said Brenna, "That changed the whole thing."

"He had no motivation for stealing the Titians." said Sherlock, "Stella killed him when she found out, and planted the copy of one of the paintings at his house so it looked like he had been the one who was solely responsible for stealing the paintings."

"Dad," said Jacob, "I'm sorry. But you have to believe me; I didn't think that Martin would be killed. I didn't think that any of this would happen."

"I believe you, Jacob." said Richard, after a moment, "All this could have been prevented if it weren't for my stubbornness. I suppose that I have paid in full for my own pride."

"Lestrade," said Alice, "I think that you have enough evidence right now to go and arrest Stella Parker."

It was over in a matter of minutes. The call soon came from Inspector Lestrade that Stella Parker, AKA the Impersonator, was in custody. She was not going to be managing anymore heists for the rest of her life. The charges of murder alone, which would quite possibly extend over several years on other jobs she had pulled, would most likely send her away for life. This was also to say nothing for the multiple counts of theft she had perpetrated as well.

However, the charges came with a price. Martin was dead; Jacob would be going to prison for his role in the theft, and Sir Richard would be left to contemplate the consequences of his actions on his own. There might have been some reason to hope, for in the course of the arrests, Zoe arrived. She had heard from the police that the case was cracked, but when she had learned the full details, the first thing that she had wanted to do was see Jacob and Richard. Sir Richard was obviously seeing in Zoe a chance to try to make things right, and he was clearly trying to get into her good graces, even if it was too late for it to make any difference.

"You have to love a family with some history between them." said Brenna, when she and Sherlock were outside the police tape. "In this case, we had a father who was more worried about appearances than his own children's happiness, two sons who were willing to cheat their father to get back at him, one ends up dead and the other goes to prison. Quite a legacy."

"It does make your own family history seem a bit tame by comparison, doesn't it?" Sherlock remarked.

"When you put it in that context, I suppose that you're right." said Brenna.

"Than you have no right to complain."

"Then I don't want to hear you complaining about your own family troubles."

"Who says I have family problems?" asked Sherlock, "I've never said that I've had family problems."

"No, you never mention your family actually, which says to me that you have problems with them. Besides, by your own frequent admission, you're a high functioning sociopath; of course you would have problems with your family."

Sherlock did not even attempt to answer that, though the annoyance in his face showed that she was at least partially right.

Alice fortunately arrived at this moment, putting an end to the conflict of wits which could very well have continued long into the night. "Well, there's that business sorted." She said, "I can imagine that Sir Richard will try to fight for his son, though I'm not sure how much good it will do."

"Family ties can be strong." said Brenna, "At least he's trying to make a fresh start with Zoe. It's a shame that it had to be after Martin was already dead."

"It's a good thing that you were able to crack that code when you did, Brenna." said Alice, "Otherwise, this whole thing might have been much more difficult."

"Sherlock was the one who was able to find out where the paintings were." said Brenna.

"It wasn't anything to terribly special." said Sherlock, "And Brenna, of course, had her moment."

"Are my ears deceiving me, or are you actually trying to give each other credit for solving this case instead of trying to steal all the glory from the other? Wonders really will never cease. Perhaps you're finally beginning to realize what a great team you actually are."

Sherlock and Brenna were left in a rather awkward silence, because Alice's remark had brought up the intimate moments that they had shared in the course of this case. Those powerful emotions, as well as all the questions that they aroused would not be easily forgotten. That moment of courage when both of them had been willing to face them was now gone, and they were left only with uncertainty.

* * *

It was weeks later when Brenna and Sherlock met face to face, or even spoke to each other. When they did come across each other again, it was in what many people would consider to be an odd place for a reunion: St. Bart's Morgue. For the two of them, however, it was old stomping grounds.

They both happened to walk out of opposite doors the same time, and when they saw each other, they both froze. It was more than a little awkward for them both, especially considering how they had parted, and the first exchange was quite uncharacteristic of their normally confidant exchanges. This was more halting and stumbling than anything else.

"Brenna."

"Sherlock, fancy meeting you here."

"Are you on a case?"

"Yes, perhaps, an informant from an insurance fraud scam. Bennett thinks he was murdered to keep him quiet. You?"

"Oh, looking into a serial killer rapist. Lestrade called me up three days ago. I'm on the verge of making a break through."

"Good, that's great."

"And how is your case going?"

"Well, not as quickly as yours, as usual. But I think I'm on the right track."

"Excellent."

That seemed to put an end to any lucid conversation. It was clear that they both wished very much to say something, but did not know what that was supposed to be. "You know, I left you a message?"

"Oh really, I must have missed that."

Brenna looked at him penetratingly. She saw Sherlock's body shift away from her slightly. He also wasn't looking directly at her, but rather slightly off to the side. Whether or not he was consciously aware of it, Sherlock was doing his best to avoid looking at her head on. Sherlock wasn't the only one who could sometimes read people like a book. Though Brenna couldn't deduce an entire history, she knew a poor liar when she saw one. "You're lying. It would be hard for you to miss. I've left you at least three messages this past week alone."

"Brenna-"

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. Can't you see that? It's been a month, and we haven't said a word to each other. We have to talk about this sometime."

"Talk about what?"

"What happened the last time we had a case together? Don't you remember what happened when we found the painting?"

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to compose an answer; and Brenna saw once again the tell-tale signs that he was doing his utmost to avoid her gaze. "Oh, that, of course. I remember, but I fail to see the significance of it. It shouldn't interfere with our friendship at all."

"Is that all you think?" said Brenna, in disbelief, "I would have at least thought…"

"Thought what?" said Sherlock, when she finished the sentence.

"You know, forget it. I suppose it was foolish of me to think that you would have felt it. Goodbye, Sherlock. Good luck on your case."

With that curt farewell, she turned to leave in a fit of peak. She was fully intending to never speak to Sherlock again. But, that only lasted as long as she could take ten steps, when she got a text. It was from Sherlock.

**Dinner tonight? 7:00? Angelo's? – SH**

Brenna paused. A part of her didn't want to, but on the other hand, this would probably be the only chance that she would get to face this thing with Sherlock head on.

**I'll be there. – BR**

* * *

Please, read and review.

Next chapter: When it comes to Sherlock, the easy way is never the way to go. When Lestrade wants information that he knows Sherlock has, he always has to do something rather drastic, such as a drugs' bust at his flat. And when you throw Brenna into the mix, things only get more complicated.


	11. Drugs' Bust

Chapter 9: A Drug's Best

_PRESENT DAY..._

Brenna was somewhat surprised when she returned to her flat with Lily only to find that Greg Lestrade was waiting for her outside of it. It also immediately put her on alert. "Lestrade, what are you doing here? Where's Alice?"

"At home. She figured you'd come back if she called you, as opposed to me."

Brenna frowned. She could already see where this was going and she didn't like it. "I see. In that case, you'd better come inside."

She swept past him without another word, and went up the front steps, to open the door to her flat. Greg, anticipating a storm, followed her. Once they were safely inside and the door was closed, he said, "Now Brenna, before you start flinging accusations at me, hear me out."

Brenna turned to him with annoyance, making no attempt to hide her anger. "Lestrade, how many times do I have to tell you, just because Sherlock and I are in a relationship does not give you the right to make me his babysitter?"

"I haven't made you his babysitter, but you have to admit that he trusts you a whole lot more then anyone else on the police force."

"Which is why you're here, isn't it? You want information."

"Would you blame me if I were? Brenna, this is a serious situation, you know that. If what Sherlock says is true, there's a serial killer out there, and it's only a matter of time before he strikes again."

"You wouldn't be treating these suicides as murders if Sherlock hadn't pointed it out to you in the first place. You're the one who's always saying that you need him."

"Yes, just like Alice needs you." Lestrade pointed out, "You're unconventional, just like Sherlock. Admittedly, though, you seem by the book compared to him."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Brenna, please be serious. My point is that you and Sherlock don't do things according to the rules, that's what makes you both such a big help, but it can also be what gets you into trouble. Sherlock even more so, since he can't even rely on the protection of the police force like you can if he oversteps his boundaries."

"You've covered for him before. In fact, you've done a lot more than most other people would have."

"But you know I couldn't protect him from everything, especially if he ended up doing something stupid. He's pushing the boundaries right now as he is by concealing evidence."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock found the case, didn't he? Don't look so surprised. You think that hearing Sherlock spout off his endless deductions for the past five years hasn't rubbed off on me, a little. Alice pulled your tracking records, and saw that you were spending a lot of time at Sherlock's this evening. My guess is, he didn't call you just because he felt lonely."

"Sherlock does enjoy seeing me in things beyond work." Brenna said, defensively.

"I'm sure that's true, but you also know he likes to show off. He seems to enjoy the cases even more when you happen to be working on them. Don't try and deny it."

"So, your theory is that Sherlock wanted me to come to his flat so he could show off how he found the case when none of your own people could."

"Well, that is what happened, isn't it?" Lestrade asked pointedly.

"Why not just order me to tell you? You could do that?"

"Technically, I can't. You're not under my authority. And I don't want to do that, in any case. I trust you, Brenna, and I understand what you might be thinking right now. But try and look at things from my perspective, instead of just defending Sherlock. I'm sworn to protect the people of this city from maniacs like this serial killer. People like Sherlock probably would say that I don't make much difference at the end of the day. But I have to do what I can. If there's even a chance of catching this guy, I have to do whatever it takes to find him. I can't settle for anything less."

Brenna had a great deal of respect for Lestrade. She thought that he was a good man, and an excellent police officer. She knew that every single word he said was sincere. She really didn't have a right to judge him when he was only trying to do his job. "All right, Sherlock did find the case, in a dumpster about five minutes drive from Lauriston Gardens."

"Was there anything in it?" asked Lestrade, for the moment ignoring the fact that Sherlock was concealing evidence that he had no right to.

"No, just clothes and makeup. However, it was what wasn't in the case that intrigued Sherlock more. There wasn't a mobile phone."

"And why did he consider that significant?"

"I don't know. He didn't really cover that part." said Brenna, leaving out the fact that Sherlock had actually texted the murderer, who had texted back. John and Sherlock were no doubt engaging in some mad chase through the streets of London, at this point. No reason to tell Lestrade that, it really wouldn't help him anyway.

"Well, it's certainly a start, at least. Sherlock could probably even guess the connection with Rachel."

"You found out who Rachel is, than?"

"He told you about the message on the floorboards?" Brenna nodded. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. She was Jennifer Wilson's only daughter, still born fourteen years ago. Now the only question is how to make him see sense? He may not be exactly forthcoming, if I were to just go up and ask him."

"Not with his enthusiasm for hiding the most pertinent details from you."

"Then I suppose that I'll have to think of something a bit more subtle."

* * *

Lestrade had a very interesting definition of subtle. Subtle in his mind, was staging a drugs' bust at 221B. Given Sherlock's drug use it was a plausible enough reason for getting into the flat, even if she suspected that Sherlock himself wouldn't be too thrilled about it once he found out. Brenna herself was surprised at how quickly he got the operation together. Then again, considering how many officers enjoyed seeing Sherlock humiliated in some form or another, perhaps it wasn't all that much of a surprise after all.

Anderson and Donavon were, of course, the first to volunteer their services. However, they certainly weren't thrilled when Lestrade insisted on Brenna being present. They claimed that this wasn't even a crime from her unit (not that she was a police officer in the first place), and that her presence was completely unnecessary.

Lestrade put down their claims, however, stating that she was a witness. Actually, the truth of the matter was that Brenna was one of the few people who could talk to Sherlock when he got into one of his moods, and make him see sense (most of the time).

The task force had been there all of twenty minutes, when Sherlock and John arrived, and the storm broke. Sherlock burst into the flat, took everything in within a second and a half, and immediately turned on Lestrade, accusingly. "What is this?"

Lestrade was sitting in the chair that Sherlock normally occupied and was acting rather blasé about this entire thing. "Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat." Sherlock said, angrily.

"And you can't withhold violence." Lestrade said.

"You have to admit that he has a point." said Brenna.

Sherlock had seen her when he had first come into the room, but he hadn't wanted to believe that she could be involved in this. Now, her comment in support of Lestrade left him in little doubt as to whose side she was on. "You told them?"

"Yes, I told Lestrade that you had found Jennifer Wilson's case. Sherlock, I warned you something like this would happen. I always warn you, and do you ever listen? No. So, I don't think that you can really blame anyone but yourself for this mess."

"Brenna, when I tell you these things, I don't expect you to just turn around and tell the police."

"What did you expect me to do, Sherlock? Lie?"

"Well, why not, you made me believe that I could trust you with this."

"Would you stop overreacting like this, Sherlock? You make me sound like I sold you out to your greatest enemy."

Sherlock glared in Lestrade's direction. "It's sometimes hard to tell the difference."

"Oh, Sherlock, grow up, will you? Lestrade's on your side. You should, at least, try and work with him."

"He's the one who broke into my flat, so forgive me, if I find the concept of working with him a little hard to apply."

Sherlock and Brenna had been exchanging these rapid fire and angry retorts at a speed that was somewhat hard for the rest of the room to follow. It was quite a difference from the fight that John had witnessed earlier that evening. That one had been a teasing argument, clearly not serious at all. This was a clashing of two extremely stubborn and strong-willed people, neither of them willing to budge from their respective opinions.

Lestrade, however, had seen them like this before, and he had too much on his mind at the moment to allow the conflict to continue. "Brenna, Sherlock, cut the lover's quarrel. We have more important things to worry about. And Sherlock, for the record, I didn't break into you flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" asked Sherlock, gesturing around to the various people who were poking into every nook and cranny of the flat.

"It's a drugs' bust."

Sherlock's face showed the slightest hint of anger, and he looked at Brenna accusingly.

"That part wasn't my idea." said Brenna, "I would have preferred a charge of breaking and entering myself. That has a bit more style."

"Seriously, though, this guy a junkie?" said John, in mild disbelief, "Have you even met him?"

John was trying to be helpful. Unfortunately, given Sherlock's well-known and painful history with drugs, he wasn't actually helping matters by trying to defend him.

"John," said Sherlock, his voice tight.

"I bet that you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything that you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up."

"Yeah, but seriously, come on?" John's face lost its confidant look when he saw the stony expression on Sherlock's face. "You?"

"Shut up." said Sherlock, before rounding once more on Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog." said Lestrade.

Sherlock turned to see one of his least favorite people on the planet give him a smug little wave from the kitchen. "Anderson, what are you doing here on a drug's bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered." said Anderson, in that maddeningly self-satisfied way that Brenna hated. Of course, Anderson would volunteer. Why miss out on a chance to see Sherlock Holmes humiliated?

"They all volunteered." said Lestrade, "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen."

Sally suddenly appeared in the kitchen, holding a jar that contained a rather grotesque specimen. "Are these human eyes?" She asked, incredulously.

"Put those back." Sherlock demanded.

"They were in the microwave."

"They're an experiment." Sherlock said, clearly putting Sally down as an ignorant cretin for standing in the way of scientific research.

"Keep looking guys." said Lestrade, as Sherlock started pacing in frustration at Lestrade, Brenna, and the world in general. "Or start working with me properly, and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish." Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm dealing with a child." Lestrade retorted. "Look, Sherlock, this is our case. I am letting you but you do no go of on your own. Clear?"

"So, you set up a pretend drug' bust to bully me?"

"If Lestrade were really bullying you," said Brenna, who was beginning to lost patience with Sherlock's attitude. "He would keep you from working this or any future cases. I'm sure you would consider that cruel and unusual punishment."

"And besides, it will stop being pretend if we find anything." Lestrade warned.

"I am clean." said Sherlock, tightly.

"And your flat, all of it?"

Sherlock rolled up his sleeve, showing the nicotine patch on his arm. "I don't even smoke."

"Neither do I." said Lestrade, showing his own nicotine patch. "So, let's work together."

Brenna could see that the two men had reached an impasse and it was now up to her to try and talk some sense into Sherlock's brain before he alienated one of the few people who actually supported him. "Sherlock, can I speak with you a minute?"

Without giving him a chance to object, she grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him over to the corner of the living room, where they began a fierce whispering conference. Though John couldn't hear every word, he could tell by their expressions and the animated, almost violent gestures on both sides, that the exchange was far from warm and affectionate. He looked at Lestrade questioningly, "Are they always like this?"

Lestrade shook his head. "You should try catching them on one of their worse days."

John was startled. "They have worse days?"

"Yes, and trust me, you don't want to know."

Brenna was slowly getting Sherlock calm down, but that was never an easy task. "Sherlock, if you don't stop this now, Lestrade is going to make sure that you won't have any part in solving this case. Is that what you want?"

"He could have just asked me."

"Like you would have listened to him. Sherlock, listen to me, you and Lestrade work best when you work together." Sherlock stared at her in incomprehension, "All right, when you at least try to tolerate each other's presence. But Sherlock, face it. You need Lestrade."

"He needs me more."

"Oh, don't let's start that. But the fact still remains that if it wasn't for Lestrade, you wouldn't be able to get these cases, and you would be twice as difficult as you are now. Sherlock, just try."

It was quite clear that Sherlock did not wish to admit that Brenna was right. But, he also knew that to try and argue with her was a pointless task, especially when she used that tone of voice. Reluctantly, he gave the barest hint of a nod, but it was enough for a moment.

And it was enough for Lestrade. "We found Rachel." He supplied.

This immediately caught Sherlock's attention and he seemed to forget the drugs' bust, as his mind had snapped into deduction mood. "Where is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter," Sherlock said, in a quiet, intense voice, one filled with the concentration he was employing in his thought processes. "Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that. We found the case." said Anderson, who couldn't see the point of this. To him, the solution was simple, and he couldn't understand why Lestrade wasn't arresting this freak. "According to somebody, the murderer has the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock glared at Anderson. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson." He snarled, his voice heavy with contempt. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research." He turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead." said Lestrade, after a moment.

Sherlock seemed to think this was wonderful news. "Excellent, how, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

"I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never even alive. Rachel Wilson was Jennifer's still-born daughter, fourteen years ago."

"No, no, that can't be right."

"Why would she think of her daughter in her final moments?" said Anderson, sarcastically, "Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now."

"She didn't think of her daughter." said Sherlock, "She scratched her name on the floor, with her fingernails. It took effort, it would have hurt. No, she is trying to tell us something."

"Like what?" Brenna asked, who wanted to keep Sherlock on this line of questioning so that he wouldn't go off on another rant.

Sherlock had started pacing again, obviously frustrated that something was eluding him, something very obvious and important, one little piece that would make all of the others immediately fall into place.

"You said that he makes the victims take the poison." said John, who, though he was a bit confused, was still keeping his sanity in a very insane situation. Brenna had to give him credit for even trying, instead of taking the easy route like so many others would have (Anderson and Donavon, just to name a few) and assume that Sherlock was simply a mentally unstable lunatic who had no idea what he was doing. "Maybe he, I don't know, talks to them, maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

"But that was ages ago, why would she still be upset?"

A long, awkward pause followed this question. Sherlock had just given a perfect example of his utter lack of social graces. He tended to blurt out the first contemptuous thought that popped into his head. Sherlock instantly noticed that everyone in the room was looking at him with mixed expressions of surprise and disapproval.

"Not good?" He asked, a bit uncertainly.

"A bit not good, yeah." John confirmed.

Sherlock was back on the offensive again in less than a second. A murder case was on the verge of being solved. Now was not the time to be thinking about propriety. "Look, if you were dying, if you had been murdered, what would you think in your final moments?"

"Please, God, let me live." Said John, in a quiet voice.

"Use your imagination."

John's face was haunted for a split second, as though reliving a particularly dark moment, when he had, in fact, been very near death. "I don't have to."

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. She is trying to tell us something."

Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared at the door. "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

Sherlock was pacing madly, his mind moving at the speed of light. He was trying to see the problem from every angle, but he still couldn't find the one piece that he was looking for. Brenna had seen him like this before, and she knew that it made him testier than normal. "I didn't order a taxi, go away." He said, curtly before resuming his frenetic pacing.

Mrs. Hudson looked around at the people who were still in the process of tearing the flat apart. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs' bust, Mrs. Hudson." John explained.

"But they're just for my hip." said Mrs. Hudson, almost a little afraid, "They're herbal soothers."

At this exact moment, Sherlock's patience with the entire human race's inability to function like he did ran out. His mind snapped under the stress of his thoughts, and he abruptly began shouting. "Everybody, shut up! Shut up! Don't move! Don't think! Don't breath! Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."

"What? My face is?"

"Don't act like it's such an impossibility." muttered Brenna.

"Everyone, quiet and still." ordered Lestrade. He, like Brenna, had learned to trust Sherlock's moments of insanity, even if they weren't always clear to him. "Anderson, turn your back."

"For God's sake." said Anderson, contemptuously.

"You're back, now, please!" Lestrade shouted at Anderson. Brenna noted with some smug satisfaction that Anderson was immediately cowed into silence,, and turned away from them.

Sherlock was totally unmindful of any of this. He was still pacing back and forth, eyes tight shut, hands to his forehead and muttering incoherently. "Sherlock, this taxi driver-" Mrs. Hudson tried one last time.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock practically screamed in the poor woman's face. Mrs. Hudson wisely decided to beat a hasty retreat for the moment.

A split second later, Brenna saw it happen. Sherlock's frenzy of movement immediately stopped. For several seconds, he was absolutely still. Then, his entire expression lit up, he had figured it out. All the pieces had fallen into place and all because he suddenly realized just what the name Rachel was meant to imply. "Oh, oh, she was clever, clever, yes. She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead. Don't you see? Don't you get it?" No one did at this point, of course, which was just as well as Sherlock went right on without pausing. "She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She is trying to lead us to our killer."

"But how?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock could hardly believe that Lestrade was asking that question when it was so utterly obvious. "What do you mean, how? Don't you see? Rachel." No response, and Sherlock repeated the word louder as if that would make any difference for understanding. "Rachel." Still blank looks. "Oh, look you lot. You're all so vacant; is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing."

"You know, Sherlock, it is relaxing." said Brenna, who was beginning to feel some of her former irritation return. "It's relaxing to know that there's only one of you in the world. So, would you mind informing the rest of us lesser mortals just what exactly you're been able to figure out?"

"Rachel isn't a name." declared Sherlock.

"Then what is it?" John demanded.

"John, on the luggage. There's a label, e-mail address."

Sherlock hurried over to his computer, as John read the e-mail address. "jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk."

Sherlock had accessed the website for Jennifer Wilson's smartphone, and was now in the process of typing out the e-mail address that John had given him. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone. It's a smart phone. Its e-mail enabled. The user-name is her e-mail address and altogether now, the password is…"

"Rachel." said John, as he, at last, began to see what Sherlock was getting at.

"So, we can read her e-mails, so what?" said Anderson, in a rather bored tone.

"Anderson," said Sherlock, sarcastically, "Don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the entire street. We can do a lot more then just read e-mails. It has GPS; you can locate it on-line if it gets lost."

Mrs. Hudson had appeared at the door yet again. "Sherlock, this taxi driver…"

Sherlock was really in no mood to put up with Mrs. Hudson. He leapt up, crossed the room in two strides and retorted sharply. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He didn't wait for a response, but crossed back to Lestrade. The two began debating in low voices about the logistics of putting a search together. Meanwhile, John and Brenna were both looking at the map reference on the screen, and they were both surprised, when they saw where the GPS had found the mobile phone.

"Sherlock, Sherlock." Said John.

"What? What is it?"

"It's here; it's in 221 Baker St."

Sherlock and Lestrade looked at the blinking dot on the screen, and sure enough, it indicated that the mobile was in the flat at that very moment. "How could it be here?" said Sherlock, mystified.

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back, and it fell out somewhere?" Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me?" said Sherlock, incredulously.

Whatever Lestrade might have said next was lost on Brenna. She had never claimed to be as observant as Sherlock. She knew that she was nowhere near the level of his gifts. But, being a thief and a con artist for so many years had taught her to pay attention to her surroundings. So, she was able to catch the hidden subtext of the next few moments, even though no one else was even aware of it.

First off, she saw the wheels in Sherlock's head beginning to turn in a different way, a new realization of the facts was dawning on him. He was beginning to understand what was going on, seeing patterns where there seemingly hadn't been before. Time for him had slowed down, a few seconds stretching into hours, and in that time, he realized who the killer was.

She also saw the shadow of a man moving behind Mrs. Hudson. She saw him pull out a pink phone and heard the distinctive sound of a text message being sent. Her eyes swung back to Sherlock, as he took out his phone and looked at the screen. When she looked back at the door way, the shadowy figure was gone.

All this occurred in the space of a few seconds, and no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. But Brenna saw it, and she began to worry. She knew what was about to happen.

"Sherlock," John's voice broke through the moment.

"What?" said Sherlock, still obviously distracted, as he too had seen the man who sent the text.

"How can the phone be here?"

"Don't know." said Sherlock, sounding like he was on autopilot.

"I'll check it again."

"Good idea." Sherlock began to move for the doorway.

"Where are you doing?" said John.

"Just going out for a bit, for some air. Won't be long." Sherlock awas out the door and down the stairs before anyone could stop him.

John looked at Lestrade. "Where's he going?"

"I don't know." said Lestrade, who just as mystified as John. "Brenna, I don't suppose you would…"

"Gladly, Lestrade." Said Brenna, moving to follow Sherlock, "Quite Gladly."

* * *

**Please read and review.**

**Next chapter: Sherlock and Brenna finally come to face to face about their feelings, and their mutual confessions will lead them to a new path in their lives.**


	12. Dinner Gone Awry

Flashback V: Confessions

_Six months previously..._

It was some trepidation that Brenna arrived at Angelo's that night. She hadn't even known if Sherlock would be there at the appointed time. If he wasn't, she was planning on just walking on by and not even bothering with it. But, he was there, sitting at the table, waiting for her. Brenna didn't even try and sneak past, she knew that it would be a fool's errand.

She was determined, however, not be intimidated or put off. So, she breezed into the restaurant, putting on a show of more confidence than she was feeling. Luckily, the first person to meet her wasn't Sherlock, but Angelo, the proprietor of the restaurant. "Brenna, lovely to see you. It's been awhile since you're been down in these parts.

"Unfortunately, no one has wanted to a steal a major work of art this side of London recently. Otherwise, I might have come back."

Angelo was one of the many Londoners who owed Sherlock some big favor. Sherlock had managed to get Angelo off a murder charge by proving he was actually guilty of the crime of housebreaking. Angelo had gone to jail for that, but always seemed to completely forget that little detail in his effusive praise for Sherlock, which was sometimes _to_ effusive for the consulting detective's taste.

Angelo also seemed to think that any friend of Sherlock's would automatically become his own (especially since he had at first thought that Brenna was Sherlock's date, an idea that had annoyed her no end), and so he had taken immediately to Brenna. "Sherlock's waiting for you. As always, it's free for the two of you."

"Thank you, Angelo." Said Brenna, as she moved away to join Sherlock.

He had seemed lost in thought, even if Brenna was certain he had been keeping track of her every move for the past five minutes. He looked up when she saw down beside him, and Brenna could have sworn that behind his normally calm exterior, he was a bit nervous. "Hello, I'm glad that you accepted my invitation."

"I can never turn down a well-phrased text, especially one that sound like it's pleading."

Sherlock frowned, clearly annoyed. "I wasn't pleading. I merely wanted to set things right between us." He looked at her appraisingly before he commented, "You're wearing your hair differently."

Brenna looked at him. That seemed completely random, even for Sherlock. "What?"

"You normally wear your hair up. In fact, you've always worn it up. I don't think that I've ever actually seen it down."

Brenna wondered if Sherlock was actually paying her a compliment, of sorts. He also was staring at her hair almost too closely, as if he were trying to pick out every individual strand. Ordinarily, she would have been quite used to this. Sherlock noticed every tiny little detail about everyone, all the time. So why on earth was that intense gaze suddenly making her both incredibly nervous and very thrilled at the same time?

Before Brenna could respond, a waiter came along to give them their menus, as well as to give Brenna a glad of red wine. She looked at the glass, than looked at Sherlock. "Angelo's best red wine?"

"As I remember, you're always enjoyed it. You said it your favorite."

"Sherlock, in the past two years, I've maybe eaten with you at this restaurant a grand total of four times. I'm assuming that you would have deleted such an unimportant detail as what kind of wine I enjoyed from your brain."

"You're not unimportant." Said Sherlock, almost automatically, and with more feeling than he had perhaps intended. He quickly realized his mistake and cleared his throat. "I mean, you're quite right, some details aren't always worth remembering. But I seem to remember everything about you. I can't delete you. You're just there." Sherlock flinched inwardly. Even he knew that sounded terrible. Here he was proving his own theory that sentimental emotions could do irreparable damage to the gift of eloquence. How on earth did normal people go about this?

Fortunately for him, Brenna wasn't offended, merely confused. But she decided to let the comment slide. "Oh, right. Are you eating then?" She pointed to the menu. "I thought you never ate while you were on a case. It interferes with your thought process."

"Oh, I already solved it."

"Of course you did. That was a silly question."

"Yes, it was. So I suppose that I might as well join you. Just don't expect me to make a habit of it."

"No, of course not." Brenna said, looking closely at Sherlock. He was staring straight back at her, seemingly completely at ease. But she also noticed that his right hand was flexing minutely and the fingers of his left were drumming against his knee. There was also tension in his shoulders that didn't come from his usual manic energy. It was from nervousness, and Sherlock was rarely nervous. Brenna felt a little relief at this, as she wasn't the only one who really didn't know what was going on. But she also decided that it was time to get this over with. "Sherlock, we have to talk."

"Yes, I know. It's hardly worth keeping up this charade."

"Things can't be the same between us, not after what happened. "

"You're right. Although, it is partly your fault."

"My fault? What do you mean?"

"Well, you're the one who initiated the kiss. If you had managed to control yourself, we wouldn't be in this position right now."

"And I can recall perfectly that you kissed me back, and if you're the one who's always supposed to be above his lower impulses, you should have stopped when you had the chance. Why didn't you?"

"A momentary lapse of my concentration." said Sherlock.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, and one that I don't intend repeating. We could have lost Jacob, and the whole case would have been lost."

Brenna stared at him, trying very hard to keep her annoyance and frustration under control. "So, that's all you have to say about it, then? Nothing else?"

"What do you want me to say, Brenna? It happened; it was over in a flash. We just need to be more careful in the future. What do you want from me?"

Brenna looked him straight in the eye, and dropped her bombshell. "I want you to admit that something happened between us, and is still going on as a matter of fact. I want you to say that somewhere in that cool, analytical mind of yours, you felt something for me. I saw it, Sherlock, and I felt it. It wasn't a momentary lapse in judgment, Sherlock, not for me. I kissed you because I wanted to. And I felt something with you that I've never felt with anyone else. Can't you just admit, for the first time in your life, that your heart understands more than your mind what you should do?"

Silence hung in the air after this outburst, and for a long time, Brenna feared that she had said the wrong thing. Sherlock merely stared at her, without showing any sort of emotion. But she then saw the mask of the consulting detective starting to crack. She saw surprise and uncertainty flash in his eyes, and she could almost swear that she saw relief as well, but any hopes that she might have had were dashed by his next words. "Brenna, I don't know if I can-"

"Then don't." said Brenna, angrily as she gathered her things and prepared to leave, "I should have known that you wouldn't admit anything. You're too blind to even see what's right in front of you, which makes me wonder what good that talent you have at deducing really is."

Sherlock was far quicker then Brenna anticipated. The prospect of her leaving was suddenly more than he could bear. Just as she was getting up to leave, his hand shot out, grabbing hers, and when he spoke, his voice had lost his usual cold, emotionless tone. It was now pleading and desperate. "Brenna, wait, please."

Brenna, startled by the tone of his voice, looked back and was taken aback by the expression on his face. Sherlock Holmes was a man of many faces; the one he most often showed the world was that of a cold and detached consulting detective. But there was one which he rarely showed to anyone else, and that was Sherlock the human. Not even Brenna had seen the face, but now, she could not look away from it. Sherlock's face was softened, especially his eyes. They were clearly pleading for her to stay. There was a very real fear that she would leave, and a tenderness that he wanted to convey, but did not yet know how to. And there was also the fact that he was holding her hand. Sherlock shied away from human contact. Brenna could only remember a few times when he had initiated contact with her in any way. But now, it seemed as though nothing would have been able to loosen his grasp.

Those three desperate words, that awkwardly tender, yet earnest expression in Sherlock's eyes was enough to convince Brenna's anger to melt. Brenna sat back down, and tried to listen to with an open heart. Sherlock was relieved, but he didn't speak right away. His other hand curled around the one of hers' which he was currently holding, as though he feared even letting her go. Brenna found herself thinking about how warm those hands were. She would have thought that they were ice cold. An odd thing to be thinking, considering the circumstances, but she really couldn't help it.

At last, Sherlock found the words that he wanted to say. When he spoke, his voice was low, thick with emotion, bearing his soul as he never had done before. "Brenna, do you know how difficult this is for me? I don't do emotions, I never have. It's always been so much easier for me to ignore them, treat them as if they didn't exist. But you, you are the most irritating, the most challenging woman I have ever met. I thought you were so impossibly easy to read when we first met, and in two years, you're still coming up with ways to prove me wrong. Yet, you never have tried to judge me. You're only just seen me as who I am." Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"Actually, Sherlock, I think that you're making a lot of sense." said Brenna, "Go on."

Sherlock met her eyes, and saw that she was looking at him with understanding; it gave him the courage to say what he needed to say. "There isn't much more to go on about, Brenna. You know me, you know how I operate. I always come straight to the point. There's no other way I can do this, except to just say it. Brenna, I'm almost certain that I've fallen in love with you."

For a few seconds, there was nothing that Brenna could say. She didn't scream or squeal, or dissolve into tears of joy. Actually, such actions were quite the opposite of what she would have done. All she did feel was a sense of overwhelming relief and happiness. "Do you really mean that?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and answered, knowing that he was putting it all on the line. "Yes, I do."

Brenna smiled when she heard this. "And even if other people may question the truth of what you just said, you should know that I believe you. Given that, I can only tell you that I'm in love with you as well."

Despite what he might have been hoping, the logical part of his mind had told him that there was a good chance that she would reject him. And to be quite honest, he hadn't been expecting her to just come out and say it. "That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I thought that you would have some sort of explanation, as to why you love me. That's how these things normally work, or so I thought."

"Do you need an inventory, then?"

"I don't know, you tell me, and we'll see how many of them I anticipated."

"Well, all right, if you must know. I don't know all of what made me start. You're a brilliant man, Sherlock, and you don't let others tell you how to act or think. And, strange as it may seem, the very fact that you were always blunt with me was rather refreshing."

"You never gave me a chance to be anything else. I've never been able to lie to you."

"Only because you are a notoriously bad liar, Sherlock. You are a really good actor, I'll give you that. But the best actors are often the worst liars in real life. You make a living out of exposing the deceits of others, and you're always blurting out the first thing that comes into your mind, so it means that you're incapable of lying convincingly yourself. And there is always the fact that your ears turn this particular shade of pink whenever you're trying to lie. It's cute."

"Cute?" said Sherlock, who was rather too startled by the word to be annoyed by it. He had been described as a lot of things, cute was never one of them.

"Yes, is that so hard to believe?" Brenna saw by the look on Sherlock's face that he clearly thought it hard to believe. "Well, I suppose that the most important thing is that you have this passion about you. You never give up when you're on a case. I admire that you never allow your personal feelings to get in the way, but I also know that some part of you cares, Sherlock. That's why you never give up, even when a lot of others would have done so."

"It's the only way to keep my mind stimulated."

"I know, that's what you always say. But I know there's more to it. I've seen it. And that's another thing I've seen about you. There are very few people in your life that you trust. But for some reason, you trusted me, from the very beginning. I saw that it was a privilege for a person to be trusted by you, especially since it was something that I had so little experience with myself. And that was how I knew that I could trust you." She shrugged. "That's about it, really. Will that answer suffice?"

Sherlock found himself beginning to smile, not the half sarcastic smile that so normally graced his features when he was amused, but one of real, genuine warmth. "That's quite satisfactory for the psychological side." He leaned his elbows on the table, his hands folded under his nose, his gaze locked intensely on hers. It was the pose that he normally adopted whenever a problem or situation presented itself as being particularly fascinating. Truthfully, he was finding this conversation, and all that it had the potential to mean, as being perhaps the most intriguing situation he had encountered in a very long time. "Now, tell me, what were the physical attractions?"

"Physical?"

"You're trying to tell me that your motives were entirely altruistic? There is usually some element of physical attraction in these cases, isn't there?"

"Are you speaking for the purposes of curiosity or do you just want to hear me praise you?"

"Please, humor me."

Brenna regarded him for a moment, before she smirked and leaned closer. "I have to confess, if there was one feature of you that captured my attention, it would have to be your hands."

Sherlock regarded her with raised eyebrows. "My hands?"

"Yes, I know that's hardly a normal attribute for someone to notice, but I have hardly been conventional. Your hands are graceful, supple. From the very start, I could tell that they were the hands of a musician. I remember the first time I watched you listening to Mozart's Concerto for Violin in A Major. I could see by the way your hands moved almost unconsciously to the music that you had played the piece. It made me realize that perhaps you weren't a total jerk. And well, over time, I've noticed little things about them. In fact, I might go so far as to say that they were the hands of a thief."

"Is that a compliment?"

"For me, it's one of the highest I can give. Also, the leather gloves might have had something to do with it." Sherlock's expression indicated that he thought this particularly amusing. "Don't laugh, Sherlock. It's a perfectly serious attribute of manly attractiveness that is somewhat failing nowadays. Will that suffice for the physical side of my attraction?"

"For now, it is. Though I would be curious in future to know more of them."

"Oh, there might be many I can assure you. But I want to keep you guessing on some things. All right, I've indulged your vanity, now it's your turn."

"To do what?"

"Tell me what physical attributes on my side attracted you. I'm actually rather eager to hear them, as you've told me several times that I wasn't beautiful."

"I never said that." said Sherlock, "I said that you weren't pretty. There's a difference."

"Really? I never thought that you were expert in such niceties. Would you care to enlighten me?"

"Pretty is just an illusion, made possible by the use of cosmetics, cameras, and a whole army of people. As such, it's very artificial and brittle. It fades as soon as the next standard of pretty comes along, which is little less than twenty-four hours in today's media saturated world. Beauty is far more subtle, and much harder to obtain."

"I had no idea that you could be so poetic, Sherlock." Said Brenna, after a moment, "And you think that I have something which makes one beautiful as opposed to just pretty?"

"Yes, your hair for instance."

"My hair?"

"Yes, as I pointed it out, you're wearing it down. You've always worn it up. In fact, this is the first time I've actually seen you with it down. It has a natural wave to it, you obviously use some sort of special conditioner, and it's always the same brand because of the coconut extract that I always smell with you. However, since it seems a bit more pronounced than usual, that means that you spent some time with a curling iron before you came here tonight. I have to say that this look suits you. You should wear it down more often."

Brenna found herself laughing. "All right, it's established, you like my hair. What else?"

"Your face, you don't do that much with it, beyond a normal routine. That suggests that your skin is relatively clear and healthy. The only thing that's different is the freckles. You never try to get rid of them. You like them."

"Of course, I do. They give my face character."

"Yes, they do. A small thing, but one that makes a good deal of sense, considering your personality. However, tonight, I do believe that you wanted to make a good impression, which explains the eye shadow and the lipstick, which seem far more pronounced then they normally are."

"You caught me, Sherlock." Said Brenna, "Can you tell me why I might have wanted to do that?"

"You must have been hoping for some sort of physical show of affection. A repeat of the incident a few days ago perhaps, only this time with a bit more enjoyable results for all parties involved."

Brenna looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "You're saying that in a very clinical way, Sherlock. Is there no hope that I could expect that?"

For a few brief seconds, Brenna was almost unsure of what his next move would be. Then, Sherlock defied nearly all the opinions that people had about him being a cold-hearted person who had absolutely no use for emotions. He leaned forward, one of his hands going around, cradling the back of her head, and pulling her towards him, he brought her lips up to his.

It was not an earth-shattering kiss. It was actually quite a gentle gesture, and on Sherlock's part, a little hesitant. But it was still a special moment. This time, the kiss meant more to them both because there was no uncertainty on either part, they both knew that they were in the same place, and going forward together.

The kiss finally ended, and Sherlock did not draw away, but remained leaning against her, his blue eyes looking into her own. "This is not going to be easy." He said.

"No, it's not. Especially considering who we both are. I expect it's going to be very complicated. However, I thought that you didn't like being bored."

"True enough." said Sherlock, who had to admit that a part of him was rather looking forward to seeing what new things he could discover about the nature of romance by experiencing it himself. "So, perhaps that would be for the best."

It was a special moment, and one which they would not forget. However, not even Sherlock's usual gifts of observation could alert them to the fact that they were under surveillance. And it would not be long before Brenna found herself being paid a visit by a most unusual man indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sherlock and Brenna are set on a whole new path. And of course things will not be easy for them. There's already a hint of that in the closing lines of the chapter. Please review and tell me what you think.
> 
> Next chapter: Brenna receives a visit from someone who is always watching. Or to be perfectly accurate, she gets kidnapped by a man who holds a minor position in the British Government. She may have received more than she bargained for when she finds out that there is more than one Holmes brother in the world.


	13. Big Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you did kind of have to know that Mycroft would turn up in the unlikely event that Sherlock got a girlfriend, wouldn't you? I like to think that Mycroft kidnaps the people who are closest to Sherlock, not so much to threaten them, but just to see how serious they are about putting up with Sherlock. That's kind of what I wanted to get across in this scene.

Flashback VI: Big Brother

_Six months previously…_

To say that Brenna hadn't been expecting to be kidnapped that evening after she left the Yard would have been an understatement. She had thought that such days were behind her. Oh, she had been kidnapped once or twice before in her life, but that had been when she was a thief and a con artist. She had been remarkably adept at talking her way out of such things.

But she had somehow known instinctively that she wouldn't be able to do that this time. Maybe it had been the way that the black car had so conveniently pulled up in front of the Yard right when she happened to be leaving, almost as if someone had been watching her moves. Perhaps it had been the somewhat ominous way that the driver had gotten out and opened the door, clearly saying with his body language that refusing, whether politely or not, was not an option.

Once Brenna got into the car, she found that she wasn't alone. There was a woman sitting in the seat beside her, dressed in an expensive skirt, blouse and shoes (Brenna wouldn't have been surprised if they were all custom made for her). The woman was typing furiously on a cell phone, and she didn't even look at Brenna when she got into the car. After about five minutes of riding along in silence, Brenna finally asked. "Is this the part where I ask where we're going?"

The woman looked up from her cell phone, giving her a polite smile that told Brenna absolutely nothing about her personality, while at the same time made it impossible for her to claim that the woman was being rude. "You could ask if you wanted to."

"You wouldn't be answering, of course."

"No, I'm afraid that I wouldn't."

Brenna rolled her eyes. She almost preferred to have her kidnappers a bit more threatening. At least it gave her something to work with. "I also suppose that it would be useless to tell you my name."

"Brenna Ryan, yes I know."

"And you aren't going to tell me your name."

"It's Anna."

Brenna looked at the woman critically. "No, it's not. You wouldn't be telling me your name this early. You would be giving away your advantage."

Anna actually managed a bit more of a genuine smile. "He said you would say that."

"I'm not even going to ask." Said Brenna, after a moment.

There really wasn't anything more to say. The woman went back to typing on her phone, and Brenna stared out the window. She had to admit that she wasn't exactly charmed by her riding companion, and she was almost glad when they got to their destination, a warehouse that seemed to be shut down for the evening. "You can get out now." said Anna, or whatever her name was, without even looking up from her phone.

"Oh, really? I hadn't guessed." said Brenna, as she got out of the car.

It was only then that she saw the person who she was certain had arranged this whole thing. Standing about ten feet in front of her was a man, with black hair and blue eyes. He seemed to be in his late thirties. Everything about him screamed well-off, from the expensive suit to his hair cut to his watch. Even the black umbrella that he was leaning seemed to be custom made for him.

He did not seem all that dangerous at first glance, but Brenna knew she had to tread carefully. Her tracking anklet hadn't activated, even though she was certainly outside of her two mile radius. Anyone who could do that without raising attention certainly had some major backing. She had learned never to underestimate her surroundings. To do so could only lead to trouble.

As he clearly meant her to come to him, she approached with understandable caution. "Good evening, Miss Ryan. I trust that this little detour won't inconvenience you any."

Brenna eyed him. "So you know my name, am I supposed to be impressed by that?"

He raised his eyebrows, and his mouth twitched into a smirk. "Would you be more impressed if I was to tell you your whole life story?"

"I'm sure you could. That's what you kidnappers normally do. And just so you know, it is normally an inconvenience to be kidnapped on your way home from work."

"I didn't kidnap you. If you recall, you did come with my driver quite willingly."

"Well, he didn't give me much choice. Now, are you through with the pleasantries, or do you wish to keep playing games? I would like to be home in time to walk my dog."

Instead of answering her directly, he merely stared at her in a most penetrating manner. Brenna got the distinct impression that he was reading her. His smile widened, as though what he saw was not completely unexpected. "A complete disregard for authority, a sarcastic reply to every question, and treating potentially life-threatening events as everyday occurrences. I can perhaps see why he was taken with you."

Brenna had not been expecting this. "Who? You're saying that we have a friend in common?"

"Does that strike you as odd?"

"Well, I think I do. I might seriously question the taste of such a person who counted you as a friend."

"In that case, you would be encouraging a conflict of interests within yourself. Besides, he really doesn't consider me a friend at all, quite the opposite."

"An enemy, then?"

"His arch-enemy, to be precise. He does love the dramatics of life, I'm sure you've noticed."

"You still haven't told me who _he_ is?"

He looked at her once again, in that same penetrating manner. Brenna had to admit that she was a little creeped out by that stare. And yet, she also couldn't help but feel that there was something about this man that was familiar, very familiar. She couldn't place it though, which was more than a little maddening.

Suddenly, he said, "Tell me, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

Brenna was completely caught off-guard by the question. Indeed, it caught her off guard, and for just a moment, her attitude of cool control slipped. "Sherlock? You know Sherlock?"

"First name basis, are you?" He said, with a great deal of interest.

"Of course, we're on a first name basis. We've known each other for two years."

"Yes, in a rather professional capacity. As far as I know, you only seemed to meet when a case brought you together. However, that professional relationship seems to have grown personal two weeks ago, when you went to a restaurant just across from 22 Northumberland St. run by a man named Angelo, if my sources are correct?"

Brenna's eyes grew sharp and for the first time, she felt a sense of fear and anger all at the same time. "Who are you?" She demanded, "What do you want with Sherlock? If you're trying to hurt him-"

"I have no desire to cause him harm." He said, smoothly, "In fact, I can assure you that I have his best interests at heart."

"You just said that you were his arch-enemy."

"I said _he_ considers me his arch-enemy. Don't assume that the feeling is mutual." His stance did not change, but Brenna caught just the slightest edge to his voice and a hardening in his eyes. It was almost as if Brenna's words had struck a nerve. This was confirmed a moment later, when he took a step towards Brenna, and said, coldly, "Believe me; I worry about him, constantly."

Brenna felt a shiver skate down her spine. She hadn't been wrong in not underestimating this man. Clearly, he could be very dangerous, when he wanted to be.

"So, what you want with me?" She finally managed to ask. "Do you want me to leave Sherlock, is that it? Do you think I'm not good enough for him?"

"I will admit, I question his choice." He said, "There are things about you, Miss Ryan, things about your past that I'm not sure if I can trust."

"That life is behind me." said Brenna, tightly.

"Is it?" The man asked, pointedly. "All those contacts and friendships you maintain in your former criminal underworld don't seem to have gone away, and if I'm not mistaken, the person that you rent your flat from is, shall we say, a man who finds it more convenient to break the law rather than follow it. Something tells me that you have not severed your ties yet completely."

Brenna remained silent. She wasn't in the mood to give an answer to such an accusation.

He continued. "But, don't worry, I'm not here to wrest you away from Sherlock. Considering who both of you are, I'm afraid that would be very difficult. No, I wanted to ask you something else."

"And what would that be?"

"Seeing as I assume you are going to be continuing your relationship with him, I have a proposition for you."

"You want me to spy on him?"

"Very perceptive of you, how did you guess?"

"I've been in this sort of situation before. Nine times out of ten, if you're kidnapped and don't have a gun to your head within the first ten minutes, the person wants information that only you can provide him. In this case, you want information on Sherlock, because only I can give it to you. You're too frightened to ask him yourself."

"You're mistaken. It's not so much a question of fear. We have a complicated past, and if I were to ask him directly, well, let's just say he wouldn't be forthcoming with information."

"Be that as it may, you still want me to do your dirty work for you. And no doubt you have some hefty sum in mind for that service, don't you?"

"I see that we understand each other."

"Not quite. What makes you think that I would agree?"

"A woman in your position really shouldn't be arguing. And besides, considering your background of deception to make a profit, I would have thought that running a double game with the people who you were closest to would appeal to you."

Brenna stiffened, restraining herself from throwing a punch at the man, anything to wipe that smirk off of his face. Luckily, she knew that doing such a thing would be incredibly stupid. She was beginning to think that umbrella he was holding was not simply a prop to keep off the London rain. "If you really have any idea about my past, you know that I have a lot more suspected of me beyond bond forgery. I don't want bribery added to the list. Besides, Sherlock trusts me. I'm not about to destroy that trust by spying on him for someone like you."

"Is that your final word, then?"

Brenna eyed him closely. She felt like it was turn to do a little bit of scrutiny. "Tell me, what would happen if I were to just walk out of here right now? Would you try and stop me?" She saw him shift slightly and his eyes flashed with slight annoyance. She heard all that she needed to answer her question in his silence. "Oh, I see. Nothing would happen to me, would it? I guess that shows just how much you're willing to sacrifice."

"What do you mean?"

"You need me, but you're not willing to force me to do anything. I can only assume it's because you don't want Sherlock angry with you. I guess that means you're no threat to me, right now."

"Are you implying that you don't find me dangerous?"

"Oh no. I know danger when I see it. The way you're carrying yourself, your words, the very resources that you employed to get me here indicate that you must have some immense resources. Knowledge is power, after all, and so that makes you very dangerous. Plus, I'm willing to bet that umbrella you're carrying could be most affective if you knew how to use it. But I've experienced several kinds of dangerous in my time. Right now, the type that you have is no threat to me."

The two stared into each other's eyes for a very long time, testing the other, and seeing quite clearly that neither would back down. It was clear to her that they had reached an impasse. He was perhaps not so much conceding defeat as stepping away from a fight in which there was no clear winner. "I believe that we have said all that we need to. Thank you for your time, Miss Ryan. Don't worry, this little detour won't be showing up in your records."

"Thank you for that. However, before you go, may I ask you something?"

"Please."

"What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"And why should that interest you?"

"Well, besides the obvious reason that it's why you kidnapped me in the first place and so I think I have a right to know. You also asked me, so it only seems fair that return the favor."

"Well, I'm afraid that's one question which you will not be getting an answer to. In fact, it might be best for it to remain anonymous."

Brenna now looked at him and smiled. "Ah, I see. The feud must go back sometime, then." His face showed mild surprise at this unexpected statement, and Brenna allowed herself a moment of triumph. "You said a few minutes ago, that you worried about Sherlock constantly. In my experience, worry is simply another name for caring. You must care a great deal for Sherlock, if you're willing to go to such lengths to look after him. Yet, I'm guessing that he must not feel the same way, so you have to do it in secret. That must be hard."

For a split second, Brenna saw a crack in his façade. It was enough to see that she was right. However, it was gone the next second. "You seem to have a way of reading the human heart, Miss Ryan. I'm quite surprised that you were able to do that with Sherlock, since he really doesn't have a heart that can be touched."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't have one. Perhaps it is simply easier for me to see it than others."

The man drew himself up to his full height, almost insulted by the subtle jibe. "Good evening, Miss Ryan." Was all he said, before turning and walking away into the shadows of the warehouse.

For a long moment, Brenna watched him go, almost expecting him to turn and begin the interrogation again. However, that didn't happen. Instead, she heard the sound of Anna of the Mobile Phone from behind her. "I believe that you mentioned something about a dog, Miss Ryan." Brenna turned around, and was not surprised that the woman was still tapping away furiously at her phone. "I can still get you back home in plenty of time to walk her."

Brenna rolled her eyes. She had no idea how Anna had managed to listen in on the exchange. But she really didn't want to speculate on it. Indeed, she had a feeling that she was stumbling around the edges of something that, for all her experience at keeping secrets, was totally beyond her. She was quite eager to leave it behind.

* * *

Brenna didn't think anymore of the strange encounter. She didn't even mention it to Sherlock. She just hadn't felt like there were any lasting repercussions from the incident. In fact, as she was looking back on it she got the feeling that the whole incident had been some sort of elaborate test. She must have passed, as she neither saw nor heard anything from the man who had kidnapped her. The only thing that she would have liked to know was who he was, and why he had been so worried about Sherlock.

She got her answer nearly a month after the incident, in the most unexpected of ways. She had met up with Sherlock at a crime scene that happened to be in her two mile radius. Or perhaps a better word might have been that she had heard rumors of the case around the Yard and that Lestrade was going to pull the freak in for his assessment. When Sherlock saw her across the street, obviously waiting for him, he had been appropriately happy to see her.

"If Lestrade didn't already know you, he might think your attitude suspicious, hanging out across the street from a crime scene and watching intently for someone. He might think that you were involved in it for some reason."

Brenna smiled. "Who's to say that I wouldn't be involved? With you on the case, I might use my advantage of being in a romantic relationship with you to throw you off the scent."

"Well, the same could also be said of you. Now that you're emotionally attached to me, you would be letting your guard down and I could use that information against you."

Sherlock's eyes were dancing as he was speaking. He had the same feeling of excitement that came when a case was particularly challenging, but there was something else along with it. He was happy when he was with Brenna. Sherlock didn't have much experience with true genuine happiness. Most of the highs he had had in the past had to do with drugs, murder, or some other unhealthy outlet. He hadn't thought that being happy would ever be that conducive to his way of life. But with Brenna, he found that it was quite natural. And not at all boring, which was Sherlock's chief nemesis in life. All initial responses to this new experiment in the realm of romance were so far quite promising.

However, all feelings of contentment began to wilt when he suddenly saw a very familiar black car pull up a few feet away from them.

Brenna saw his face darken with irritation and anger. Brenna saw it, and she turned around to see the car, and the man who was now getting out of it. "Sherlock, are all right? Who is that?"

"Brenna, do you know that man?" asked Sherlock, almost sharply.

"I might have encountered him." Brenna responded after a moment.

"Far more than an encounter, I'm sure." He said, tightly. "I was afraid of this, but I was hoping you would be spared."

"Sherlock, what on earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He knew that trying to slip away unseen would be a useless errand, as he would just turn up elsewhere. Best to get this unpleasant meeting out of the way right now. Almost unconsciously on his part, his arm suddenly wound around Brenna's waist, pulling her into him to ensure her safety. Brenna was a little surprised by this move, as it was the most intimacy that Sherlock had yet exhibited in public. Now, it was almost as if Sherlock wanted to make sure that anyone who wanted to threaten her would have to go through him first.

They walked towards the black car, beside which the man was now standing. He was still the same impeccably dressed man she remembered, save that his suit was a different color. Also, he still had the umbrella. Standing beside him was the same woman that Brenna remembered from before, still typing furiously away at her phone. Brenna couldn't help but wonder in the midst of all this other weirdness why such a powerful man would use such a totally absent-minded woman for a secretarial position.

He seemed to regard the fact that Sherlock had his arm around her as being particularly amusing. "So, mixing business and pleasure, are you? That's never been your style, but I think that you seem to be branching out in all kinds of ways lately."

"What are you doing here?" demanded Sherlock, icily.

"I'm just checking up on you, and your new friend. Crime scenes are not usually considered romantic rendezvous'. Of course, with you, I don't think I'm surprised that you're not going the conventional route."

Sherlock was clearly not in the mood to bandy words. "Mycroft, this does not concern you at all. In the future, I would like it if you left my private life alone."

"The last time that I did that, we both know what happened. I don't plan on making the same mistake twice, Sherlock."

"Brenna is not a mistake for you to fix, Mycroft."

"Must you always assume that I'm out to hurt you at every turn? You might be surprised to know that I have your best interests at heart."

"Than why did you kidnap her?"

"Will you two please stop talking about me like I'm not here?" said Brenna, who hated sitting on the sidelines like this in the midst of an argument. "Mycroft? Your name is Mycroft?"

"Would Sherlock be calling me that if it wasn't?" He asked, as if the answer were completely logical.

Brenna had heard and seen enough at this point to fit the pieces together. She suddenly knew who this man was. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me that you had a brother who is some sort of MI-5 agent?"

Both of them looked at her, somewhat surprised that she had managed to guess it. She looked from one to other. "Oh, please, it's not that difficult to figure out. Your names are a dead giveaway."

"Our names?" repeated Sherlock.

"Yes, only you, Sherlock, would have a brother named something like Mycroft. And as for you," she said, turning to Mycroft, "I wasn't far off was I? About you worrying? It's a trait of older siblings everywhere. Believe me, being the youngest in the family of four, I know about these things. But I'm guessing you have some age on him, ten years, maybe?"

"Seven." said Mycroft, almost grudgingly. "Congratulations, Miss Ryan. You're rather perceptive, just as I thought. But your imagination runs to the extremes, like Sherlock's. I'm not an MI-5 agent, I merely occupy a minor position in the British government."

Sherlock snorted with contempt when he heard this, which made Brenna wonder just how minor that position in the British government was. She also saw that the reaction earned Sherlock a glare from Mycroft.

Brenna didn't mention that she had also managed to figure out their relationship just from the way that they interacted: sibling rivalry gone extreme. She should have known that nothing would be normal with Sherlock, not to mention that the odd feeling of déjà vu she had felt with Mycroft in the warehouse. Apparently, scrutiny and deduction were a Holmes family trait.

"Well, as much as I hate to break up this lovely little meeting," said Sherlock, "Brenna and I must be going. Only one more thing, Mycroft."

"And what would that be?"

Sherlock took a step forward so that he and Mycroft were almost literally nose to nose. "I do not care if you involve me in your games. I know how to play them. Brenna doesn't, and I won't have you ensnaring her in anything that could hurt her."

"She had a right to know what she was getting into, from the beginning." said Mycroft, who, to his credit didn't back down from Sherlock's anger, returning it with a cool glance of his own. "And if she is involved with you for any length of time, I can promise you that she will learn the rules quickly enough."

Brenna had never seen Sherlock so angry. His entire body had gone rigid, his hands forming into fists, and it looked as though he were quite ready to do some sort of physical harm to his brother, but she put a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Sherlock, come on. Let it go."

Very slowly, Sherlock relaxed ever so slightly, though his eyes were still shooting daggers at Mycroft, who returned the expression with one no less dark. Brenna could tell that there was more than a little tension behind this encounter, tension that went further back than her coming into it.

At last, Sherlock said, "Goodbye, Mycroft. Next time you decide to meet up with us, do give me some advance warning so I can avoid it."

With that, he turned and walked away. Brenna took one last look at Mycroft. "You really do worry about him, don't you?"

"Of course, why shouldn't I?" said Mycroft.

"Then I suppose I can try and respect you for that, even if I can't like you. Goodbye then, Mycroft Holmes. Despite what Sherlock might wish, I doubt it will be the last time I see you."

"Oh, depend upon it, it won't be."

Brenna stared at Mycroft, and truly wished that she had something cutting to say to him. But she didn't. It looked like Sherlock's big brother would just have to be one of the things that she learned to accept.

Turning without another word, she hurried after Sherlock. "Tell me, does your brother normally kidnap your girlfriends and interrogate them?"

Sherlock actually managed a sour smile. "I wouldn't know, I've never had a girlfriend. Not that I consider you one in the first place, it's too a dull term."

"Right, of course. Then what are you going to call me?"

"I don't know, I'm still hunting for a proper expression. But in answer to your question, yes, Mycroft does make a hobby out of kidnapping. He's done it before to people who he considers to play a permanent part in my life."

"I see. How very charming."

"Don't worry; he's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. But, he won't harm you. In fact, I rather suspect that the whole thing was just an attempt to see what you were made of. He wouldn't have let you see me again if you hadn't passed."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better. What about that woman who follows him everywhere, the one who has the phone surgically fused to her hand? He still offered me money to spy on you."

"Her? That's Anthea."

"Really? She told me her name was Anna."

"She changes it once every week at least, but mostly she's Anthea. She's Mycroft's…" Sherlock paused, and seemed to be hunting for the right word, before he shrugged, "I honestly don't know what all she does. She never appears without Mycroft, and Mycroft doesn't go anywhere without her. Ignore her. That's what I do, and it works quite well."

"You ignore everyone if you think they're irreverent." said Brenna, "I should tell you that he did offer me money to spy on you."

Sherlock stopped and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Oh he did, did he? What was your answer?"

"I told him no. I'm assuming that was the right answer."

"You weren't even tempted?"

Brenna grinned. "Sherlock, I hate to tell you this, but you wouldn't be worth my time. You don't have that much to challenge me with."

"I don't?" said Sherlock, who seemed almost offended.

"Yes, I have you completely figured out. You're a consulting detective who has a complete lack of empathy. There aren't many secrets there for me to find."

Sherlock smirked. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he began walking with her down the street one more. "As I said before, Brenna, I have many secrets. I might be more complicated than you think."

"Then I'll look forward to seeing how you can prove me wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Returning to the present and the final confrontation of A Study in Pink. Brenna has to cover for Sherlock when he goes off on his own. However, she finds an unexpected ally in John, one that could lead to a very satisfying friendship.


	14. Trust Me

Chapter 10: Trust Me  
Brenna hurried down the stairs after Sherlock. When she got to the bottom, she was not surprised to see that he already had his coat on, and was only seconds from heading out the door. "Sherlock."

The Consulting Detective turned at the sound of her voice. "Brenna?" He responded, as though he were merely stepping out to get the shopping.

Brenna went straight to the point. "Sherlock, he's out there, isn't he? The Killer?"

Sherlock did not answer for a long moment, and Brenna read the answer she feared in his eyes. So much, the communication between the two of them did not need words. They saw things in human behavior that most others would have missed. A tilt of the head, the way the eyes shifted or moved, could tell them far more words ever could.

Brenna knew what Sherlock knew, that the man who had been ruthlessly murdering people all over London was only feet outside the door of 221B Baker St. What was more, he was there for Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock, being who he was, was not able to resist the call of danger.

It always made her afraid to know that there was that aspect of his character lurking beneath the surface, but she couldn't condemn him for it. She also experienced it herself. There was a feeling of inevitable danger which clung to Sherlock. Most often, the palpable feeling of that danger was enough to drive people away from him. More rarely, it was drew others to him. It had happened with her, and she was beginning to suspect that it had done so with John as well.

Brenna already knew the answer to her question. She also knew the answer to her next one before she even asked it. "And you're going out there?"

"Yes, I am. And I think you know why I have to."

Brenna came forward, speaking as she went, until she was right in front of him. "You want to find out how he killed those people. You're not going to let the police arrest him until you understand."

Sherlock stared at her in his penetrating manner. "Does that upset you?"

"Yes, no, I don't know." Brenna shook her head. "I don't know how it makes me feel, if you must know. But I can tell you that it doesn't make me happy."

"Brenna, you know how I am. You knew what you were getting into when we started this whole thing. You can't blame me for this."

"I don't, Sherlock. I'm just worried about you. Right now, I'm afraid that if you go out there, you'll get yourself killed."

"No, I won't." Sherlock said, as if it were completely assured.

"Damn it, Sherlock, please don't start that with me. Don't start acting like you know everything and therefore nothing will ever happen to you. It can, Sherlock. We both know that. For once, can't you please be serious."

Sherlock's eyes softened, and for a brief moment, his feelings, which so few doubted he had, but which Brenna knew could run deep and strong showed in his face. He closed the last little distance between them and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Brenna, when this relationship started, what was the one thing that I always told you to do without fail?"

Brenna didn't respond right away, and when she did, it was in a soft voice. "To trust you."

"Yes, trust me; trust me to know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. Trust me, even when it seems that I'm playing with my own life. It's the same reason why I trust you, Brenna."

Brenna reluctantly nodded, knowing that there was nothing she could say which would stop Sherlock from doing this, so she had to accept it. "Just don't do anything stupid, Sherlock. If you do, and that guy doesn't kill you, I certainly will."

Sherlock smiled, that real, genuine smile that he used only for her. "I never promise that I'll be all right. Only that I will never let you down." He leaned forward and pressed is lips to her forehead. "And just so you know," He said, in a surprisingly gentle voice, "I don't have any plans to die tonight."

The two exchanged one last look, before Sherlock turned and went out the door. Brenna did not try to run after him, though a part of her might have liked to try and join him. She took a few moments to mold her face and emotions into a calm mask that hid her roiling doubts, and headed back up the steps to the flat. By the time she returned to the living room, Sherlock had already gotten into the cab and driven off. John was trying to ring his phone, but was getting no response.

When Lestrade saw Brenna standing in the doorway. "Brenna, did he say where he was going?"

"No," said Brenna, lying so well that Lestrade bought it completely (not because Lestrade was stupid, Brenna was just that good when it came to lying), "He just said he had something that he needed to do and left."

"Look, does it matter?" Donavon demanded of Lestrade. "Does any of it? He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down."

Lestrade didn't like having to admit that Sally was right, but he could tell that in this instance, there was nothing else he could do. He told his team to start packing up, which they began to do with obvious relief. A few minutes later, the only ones who still remained were Lestrade, Brenna and John. "Why would he do that?" said Lestrade, "Why would he leave?"

"You should know better than anyone not to ask why Sherlock Holmes does anything." said Brenna, "You'll never get an answer."

"You've known him longer than I have." said John.

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't." said Lestrade.

"Than why do you put up with him?"

The same look of grim determination which had been on Lestrade's face earlier that evening appeared once more. "Because I'm desperate, that's why." He needed Sherlock, because whether he admitted to it or not, Sherlock helped to solve the most violent crimes that came through his department. Therefore, Sherlock also kept other people safe because of his actions. Lestrade was willing to do anything to see that his duty was fulfilled, no matter what it took.

And there was another reason as well. Despite everything that Sherlock did to drive him insane, Lestrade truly believed in Sherlock. He had seen it fleetingly over the years, the heart and emotions that drove Sherlock's work. He was seeing it even more since Sherlock and Brenna had begun their relationship: Sherlock was gradually growing to be more human. Lestrade believed that if Sherlock could learn to let a bit more emotion into that amazing mind of his, he would be a better detective, and perhaps something more. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think, one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." With a rather significant glance at Brenna, perhaps implying that he actually knew more of the true situation than he was letting on, he left the room.

Brenna was staring out the window, a distant and troubled look on her face. John realized that this was really the first time that he had really been alone with her. He wasn't exactly sure what he could say, but he couldn't help but feel that there was something that Brenna hadn't told the police. "Brenna, if you don't mind me asking-"

"It was the killer." said Brenna, abruptly cutting off John's question. "All along it was the cabbie that did it."

John stared at her in slight shock, not quite sure if he had heard her right. "What?"

"The cabbie was the murderer. He was the one who was driving the cab that Sherlock got into."

"And did Sherlock know this?"

"Yes."

John was astonished that Brenna could say that one word so calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And you just let him do that? Doesn't he have any idea of the danger that he's putting himself in? If he knew that the killer was right outside Baker St., why didn't he inform the police?"

"I let him go, because I think you'll be finding that it's nearly impossible to keep Sherlock from doing something when he has set his mind to it. Yes, he's perfectly aware of the danger, that's why he's doing it. As for the last question, he can't let the police know until he understands why and how the murders were done."

"Who cares how he did it, so long as he's stopped?"

"Sherlock does." She shook her head. "I don't expect you to understand, I'm not sure that I do entirely myself. I can only say that Sherlock admires a well-crafted murder. And he always wants to know the truth behind it."

She was right; John couldn't understand that method of thinking at all. At the same time, Brenna's calmness was what continued to amaze him. "Aren't you even worried about him?"

Brenna's eyes flashed and she seemed to take offence at the statement. "Are you kidding? Of course, I'm worried. I can't control Sherlock, not when he gets like this. But, I do worry about him. I do worry that someday his curiosity will get the better of him and I won't be able to help him."

John could tell that he had struck a nerve. Brenna clearly meant every word and this wasn't the first time that she had had to defend herself against like accusations. A logical part of his mind said that this was utterly ridiculous. And yet, the way that Brenna so quickly came to Sherlock's defense, and the passionate belief which he saw in her eyes spoke to another part of him. John understood loyalty. It was bred into him as a soldier, something that he admired. So far, he had observed that Sherlock was belittled by nearly everyone around him, and only Lestrade and Brenna truly seemed to trust him. What he still couldn't understand was why.

"Why are you so willing to put up with all of this?" He asked.

Brenna was about to snap her usual reply that that was none of his business. But she stopped when she realized in what spirit the question was being asked. John wasn't asking out of any preconceived notions. He wasn't trying to judge her. He genuinely wanted to know, because he seemed to want to understand Sherlock better. If that was the case, perhaps he deserved a fuller answer.

"It's because I trust him, John, and he trusts me. That may not seem all that important to you, but it makes all the difference in the word to me. I've not had a lot of people in my life that I could really trust for the past six years. Sherlock exasperates me, he annoys me, he even makes me incredibly angry, but he has never, in all the time that I've known him, let me down."

John had not expected such a recital, but he could tell that she meant every word. He had to admire her spunk and courage for being so willing to stand up for Sherlock when it seemed no one else did. "All right, I can understand that." Brenna looked at him, clearly surprised. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm just not used to hearing someone accept my relationship with Sherlock so easily. In fact, I have to admit that it's rare for anyone to accept him so unquestioningly. Yet you have. You must be a man of hidden depths, John Watson. I really think that I could learn to like you because of it."

"I have to admit that I thought he was completely crazy the first time we met. From what I've seen and what you told me, I still think that."

"And yet you still choose to share a flat with him?"

John smiled a little. "Well, he's not dull, is he?"

Brenna laughed, glad to have some relief to the tension. "No, no, he's really not. And he did cure you of your limp, so I guess you owe him."

John looked down at the cane he was carrying, having completely forgotten about it in the excitement of the last few hours. "Oh yes, he did, in a matter of speaking."

"That's part of what Sherlock does. He can change your life entirely, in a totally unique way, and once he does that, he never leaves."

John had to admit that was actually a very accurate reading of the way that Sherlock was. But, before he could respond, a beeping from Sherlock's computer suddenly interrupted him. They both looked at the screen, only to see the blinking mephone signal on the map. In the flow of their conversation, they had forgotten the phone signal which had started this whole thing. Now, the phone was signaling from a location, and it was no longer moving. That could only mean one thing: the cabby was no longer driving, and it Sherlock was with him...

Brenna and John looked at each other, and immediately knew what had to be done. They had known each other less than 24 hours, and yet, in the course of a ten minute conversation, they had found enough common ground to ensure a strong friendship. Without another word, John grabbed Sherlock tablet and the two of them hurried down the stairs to catch a cab.

They had a consulting detective to save.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love John. I can't help it. He just seems like a great person to have on your side, and a bad person to make your enemy. Please read and review.
> 
> Next chapter: Brenna and John hurry to save Sherlock from his own idiotic desire to prove himself clever. But, it turns out to be the beginning of a great partnership


	15. Risks

Chapter 11: Risks  
The cab ride felt interminable to Brenna. Sherlock was in a potentially life-threatening situation and suddenly all the traffic in London immediately got worse. John didn't seem to be in a much better frame of mind, as he was trying to get ahold of Lestrade and give direction to the cabby at the same time. The operator that he had on the other line wasn't proving very cooperative in putting him through, and he was quickly growing frustrated.

Tension was only added to the mix when she heard her own phone ringing. She immediately cursed. Of course, her anklet had gone off; she must have gone outside her radius. She took out her phone and answered. "Alice, let me explain."

"You had better have a good explanation for this, Brenna. I didn't clear you to go outside your radius this evening."

"Sherlock's in trouble, Alice. What was I supposed to do?"

"Sherlock is always in trouble, Brenna. And you know you can't go off to help him whenever that happens, or I would never be able to keep track of you."

Brenna was about to reply, when a thought suddenly occurred to her. Of course, Alice could track her wherever she went, why hadn't she thought if it before? She even started laughing. John looked at her obviously puzzled as to what she could be laughing about at such a moment. Alice apparently thought the same thing. "Brenna, this is no laughing matter. Do I have to remind you what's at stake here? Don't make me send an officer out there."

"Yes, Alice, exactly. Send an officer after me. Send Lestrade. Tell him to lock onto my signal. We're headed for Roland Kerr Further Education College. We might be leading him to a murderer."

For a moment, Alice was silent on the other end. "Brenna, you had better be right about this."

"Come on, when have I ever let you down? I know what I'm doing on this, Alice, trust me."

Alice sighed. "Fine, I'll send in back up."

Brenna hung up triumphantly and turned to John, "Don't worry, John, help is on the way."

John was staring at her, surprised and confused. "Was that the same Alice Bennett who was texting you earlier."

"Yes, she works at the police station. I suppose you could say she's my supervisor."

"Sherlock said she was the one who held your leash."

"Oh, is that how he described her? That's accurate enough, from a cynic's perspective, I suppose."

"So, you work for the police?"

"In a matter of speaking. Look, John, I promise I'll answer all your questions when this is over. For right now, let's just rescue Sherlock. "

John looked at her for a few seconds more, then nodded. "Right, whatever you say."

A few minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Roland Kerr. The two of them got out, and immediately saw that they weren't the first ones to arrive. There was another black cab in front of the building. "The cleaners must be in." said Brenna, "Otherwise, the place wouldn't be open."

"You think we're in time?" asked John.

"If this cabby is following the same pattern of making the people take the poison themselves, he must need to take awhile to do it."

"We should split up." said John, "I'll take one side, you take the other."

They split up, and Brenna began her search. Her heart was pounding with both worry for Sherlock and the excitement and thrill of the chase. It was an odd combination to be feeling. But with Sherlock, she was quickly beginning to accept it as a normal occurrence.

Since she had no idea where Sherlock might be, she had to look into each and every room on all the floors. Her frustration was growing as each glance yielded a dead end. Every passing moment meant that Sherlock was in increasing danger, not just from the killer, but from himself. Brenna was in no doubt to the fact that he might very well put his own life recklessly on the line in order to find out the truth.

She rushed up the stairs to the last floor, and that was when she heard the loud gunshot echoing through the building. She froze for a split second, terror rooting her to the spot as the worst case scenario flashed through her mind. The image of a bloody and dying Sherlock was enough to get her back into action. This time, her feet moved faster than they had before. As she got to the top floor she saw that a light was on in the room at the far end of the corridor.

She rushed to the door and pushed it open with more force than was perhaps absolutely necessary. "Sherlock!"

She took in the scene before her in only a few seconds. Sherlock's tall form standing over the body of the dead cabby, who had a pool of red forming underneath him. That had been the gunshot she had heard, she realized. For a split second, she was just so relieved that he was all right, she didn't really care about anything else. She rushed towards Sherlock and embraced him. "Sherlock, you're all right."

"Of course I'm all right." Sherlock said, as though it were a perfectly normal occurrence for him to be standing beside a dead body. "I told you I didn't plan on me dying tonight. You should have more faith in me."

Brenna finally faced him, smiling. "I do have faith in you." She said, "I also know that you require back up on more than one occasion." She looked down at the body of the cabby. "What happened?'

Sherlock shook his head. "I wish I could say for certain. He was shot from the building across the way, through the window." Sherlock pointed across the room, to the window that had a bullet hole in it. Directly across from them, Brenna that the window was open on that side.

"No ordinary gun man could make that shot and hope to succeed. She said, "Did you see who it was?"

"No, he just disappeared."

John, Brenna realized. John had shot the cabby. John had saved Sherlock's life. Instantly, her respect for the doctor increased, and she resolved to make sure that he didn't leave Sherlock's side for the foreseeable future.

But, of course she wasn't going to tell that to Sherlock. He was the brilliant consulting detective, let him figure it out.

"He must have been a crack shot." said Brenna, concealing her realization from Sherlock.

"Yes, and a strong moral principle, that might narrow the field considerably. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger."

Brenna raised her eyebrows. "You were in a room with a crazed serial killer, Sherlock. When during the last hour have you not been in immediate danger?" It was only then that Brenna saw that Sherlock's eyes had a wild light to them and his hands were shaking slightly. She had known him to have that look when he had just walked the line in-between life and death. It could be said that was Sherlock's other addiction. "Ah, you were doing something stupid, weren't you?"

"It wasn't stupid." Sherlock defended, "It was all to do with the case. The cabby gave the victims a choice between two pills, one would kill you and the other wouldn't."

"And you were about to take one of them, weren't you?"

"Maybe I was, all for the sake of the case, of course."

Brenna shook her head and smiled. "You're a bloody idiot, Sherlock."

He grinned back at her. "And yet here you are, rushing to my rescue. I wonder if that doesn't make you the bigger idiot."

"We'll argue about it some other time, shall we? Right now, I'm sure Lestrade will want to speak with you."

"Lestrade?"

"Sherlock, I don't know if you noticed, but this is outside my radius. It was bound to draw attention. I just decided to make use of it."

No sooner had she finished talking, than they hear the distant screaming of sirens, and the flashing of blue and red lights. "There they are now."

"Late, as always." muttered Sherlock.

"Don't criticize, Sherlock. You're alive and the killer is dead. Right now, that's the only outcome I'm worried about."


	16. Partners

Chapter 12: Partnership  
It only took a few minutes for Lestrade and his team to take control of the situation. Sherlock was immediately ferried off to be questioned, and as Brenna had only arrived after the fact, Lestrade let her go after his preliminary inquiries had been satisfied.

"That anklet of yours' has come in handy again." He told her, "It might have taken us a lot longer to track Sherlock to this place without it."

"I do try to be a civil servant when I can." Said Brenna.

She managed to get beyond the lines of the police tape only a few minutes later, and wasn't surprised to see John waiting for any sort of word. "How is he?" He asked Brenna.

"Oh, he's fine. He's Sherlock. Looking death in the face and living to brag about it is a regular occurrence with him."

"So, he figured out how the cabby did it, I suppose?"

"Yes, or so he told me. The cabby offered his victims two pills, one was poison and the other was safe. The victim chose one and he took the other. Sherlock can explain it to you better. He practically lived to tell about it himself."

John turned to look at her. "What do you mean?" He asked, with seemingly perfect innocence.

"He was about to take one of the pills, until…"

"Until… What?" Prompted John, when she didn't continue.

Brenna smiled at him. "Why should I tell you? You already know."

"Do I?"

Brenna didn't respond right away. Instead, she stared hard at John Watson, and when she did speak, all she said were two simple words. "Thank you."

John seemed about to speak in denial, but he somehow sensed that it would be a fool's errand to try and put anything past Brenna. He nodded instead, and returned the smile. "You're welcome. I'm glad that I could be of help."

Brenna didn't say anymore about it. Instead, se turned her attention back to Sherlock, who was sitting just inside the ambulance. One of the medics put an orange blanket around his shoulders, an act which seemed to confuse Sherlock no end. When Lestrade came over to him, the first words out of Sherlock's mouth were, "Why have I got this blanket… They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for the shock."

"I'm not in shock." Sherlock vehemently denied.

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock decided to let it go and change the subject. "So, the shooter, no sign?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them might have been following him, but we don't have anything to go on."

Sherlock eyed Lestrade. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"All right, give me."

Sherlock's mind was still working at full tilt despite what he had just gone through. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A shot fired over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's not just any shooter, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and nerves of steel…"

While he had been speaking, his keen gaze just happened to catch sight of John and Brenna, both of whom had clearly been listening in. John's eyes locked with his for a split second, before the Doctor tactfully changing direction. Brenna's gaze remained on him for a little while longer, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. Sherlock's voice trailed off as he suddenly realized who the mystery shooter was, and that Brenna had known all along.

Quickly changing tact, he said to Lestrade, "You know what, ignore me."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in mild disbelief. "Excuse me?" He had never heard Sherlock stop mid rant and then deny everything he had just said.

"Ignore all that, it's just the shock talking."

Sherlock's voice seemed to be lacking its normally polished poise. Brenna had to choke back laughter when she heard him. When John looked at questioningly, so she said in explanation, "Sherlock, he's a terrible liar."

"Really? I would have thought being a private detective would have made him a good one."

"Well, I will allow Sherlock to be a very good actor, and very talented at knowing which pieces of information to hide, but when he's trying to tell a deliberate untruth, he turns out to be very poor at it. Watch his ears. They always turn pink when he's trying to lie."

"I'll take your word for it. I don't fancy looking too closely at Sherlock's ears."

Sherlock, at this point, was suddenly having a very strong desire to get away from Lestrade. "Hey, where are you going?" Lestrade asked, as Sherlock walked away, without so much as a parting word.

"I just to talk about the… the rent." Said Sherlock, stumbling over his words.

"I've still got questions."

"Oh, what now?" said Sherlock, in minor irritation. "Look, I'm in shock. I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock."

"And I just caught you a serial killer, more or less." Said Sherlock, knowing that was his advantage in this situation.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock for a long moment, obviously suspecting that there was something else that Sherlock wasn't telling him. But, then again, the more he thought about it, Sherlock _had_ caught him the killer. The people of London were safe from another criminal and he, for one, would breathe a little easier. Not to mention that he felt himself overdue to be spending time with his son. If Sherlock had given him all that, however unaware he might have been, he supposed that he could let this one go. "All right, we'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Finally dismissed, Sherlock quickly turned and walked away before Lestrade could change his mind. He pulled the blanket off, threw it in the window of a nearby police car and docked under the tape, meeting up with Brenna and John.

John cleared his throat and said, "Sergeant Donavon's just been explaining. Two pills…" He trailed off and shook his head, "It's a dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock stared into John's face. He knew that Donavon hadn't been anywhere near John, he had seen it all for himself first hand. Sherlock realized that he had John to thank for saving his life. John had taken an extraordinary risk in doing so. Sherlock wasn't used to that kind of concern being expressed for his well being. He wasn't used to someone looking out for him, at least, not until Brenna came along, and now John. Sherlock didn't forget that sort of thing easily. He was still getting used to the strange idea of trust. But, under the right circumstances, he had to admit that he was beginning to like it.

But he couldn't tell all that to John. Not in anyway that would make sense. But the two words he finally settled on, said all that he feeling better than anything else. "Good shot."

John paused, processing the full magnitude of that statement, before he said, "Yes, it must have been. Through that window."

"Well, you'd know." said Sherlock, pointedly, "You have to get the powder burns out of your fingers. Don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John nodded a clear sign that he understood.

"Are you all right?" asked Sherlock.

"Me? Yes, fine."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

John considered this for a moment, before saying, slowly, "Yes, yes, that's true. But he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock found himself laughing. "No, no he wasn't really, was he?"

"I suppose that killing four people in cold blood would make one rather unpleasant to deal with." Said Brenna.

"And quite frankly, he was a bloody awful cabby." Said John.

"That's true, he was a bad cabby. You should have seen the route he took us to get here."

The three of them began walking away from the crime scene, still trying to smother their laughter. "Shh, we can't giggle. It's a crime scene." said John.

"Well, you're the one who shot him." Sherlock reminded him, which sent all three of them laughing once more.

They walked past Donavon, who gave them all a strange look. They quickly muttered their apologies, giving excuses about nerves. However, once they were safely past any prying eyes or eavesdropping ears, John asked Sherlock, "You were gonna take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Of course, I wasn't. I was biding my time, knew you'd show up."

"No, you didn't." said John, who was still smiling. "Its how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove that you're clever."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." It was the same thing that he had heard from Brenna so many times, and in almost the exact same spirit. Few people seemed to realize who Sherlock was, and that his personality did not work like a normal person's. He was invariably judged as a freak because of it. Only Brenna didn't see it that way, and neither apparently did John. They saw all that Sherlock was, and they simply accepted it.

Sherlock smiled, and glanced at Brenna. "That sounds familiar."

"I knew there was something I liked about you, John." said Brenna.

Sherlock looked back at John. "Dinner?"

John returned the smile. "Starving." He said, in response. He had a feeling that his life was about to become more crazy than he had ever experienced. But he was more than ready for it.

"At the end of Baker St., there's a nice little Chinese that stays open till two.'" Said Sherlock, as they began walking once more, "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

John suddenly saw the familiar black car pulling up to the crime scene. He was stunned when the same man he had met earlier that night got out. "Sherlock, that's him. That's the man who I told you about."

Sherlock caught sight of him, and John then witnessed a strange thing. In all the time since he had met Sherlock, he had not seen him touch Brenna in anyway. They didn't even seem to hold hands. He didn't the affection between them; Sherlock just didn't seem to be the type who welcomed contact. However, when Sherlock saw the man, his eyes grew dark and his arm went around Brenna, drawing her closer to him. It was as if he thought that she wouldn't be safe anywhere but close to him.

"I know exactly who that is." He growled, and John heard the slightest edge of anger to it.

Before he could say anything, they had come up to the man, who said, "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited of you. But, of course, that's never your real motivation."

Sherlock stared at the man in evident suspicion and dislike. "Why are you here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern." Sherlock spat with heavy sarcasm.

"Always so aggressive. Has it ever occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"Rather hard for him to think that when you keep kidnapping everyone he happens to meet." Brenna interjected.

"That's a vast exaggeration, Miss Ryan, which will not help matters." Said Mycroft, in irritation. "We have more in common than you would like to believe, Sherlock. This petty feud between us is simply childish, people will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy."

Sherlock stared in Mycroft in disbelief. "I upset her? Me? It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft."

John interrupted at this point, rather confused by this point. "Wait, mummy? Who's mummy?"

"Mother, our mother." Sherlock clarified, "This is my brother, Mycroft." He looked at Mycroft critically for a moment, before saying, "Putting on weight again?"

Brenna tried not to laugh, which earned her a glare from Mycroft, before he said scathingly to Sherlock, "Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother?" Repeated John, who seemed to have difficulty wrapping his mind around the concept of there being two Holmes' in the world.

"Of course he's my brother." Said Sherlock, who almost seemed to admit it with difficulty.

"Their names weren't a dead giveaway?" Said Brenna.

"So, he's not…"

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"MI5 agent." Said Brenna, "That's what I thought."

"Well, actually, I was thinking more along the lines of criminal mastermind."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government." Cut in Sherlock, coldly, "When he's not being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

"Sherlock," said Brenna, who could see that this little argument was growing quickly out of hand. As much as she liked baiting Mycroft, she didn't wish for it to become unmanageable, especially with so many eyewitnesses.

John, who hadn't thought that anyone would be able to control Sherlock, was impressed when Sherlock seemed to respond to Brenna's voice, and the restraining hand she put on his shoulder. He seemed to grow in control, though his continued disapproval of Mycroft's presence was evident. "Good evening, Mycroft." He said, in a steely voice, "Try not to start a war before we get home, you know what it does to traffic."

His arm still wrapped securely around Brenna's waist, he turned and walked away. Brenna looked back over her shoulder to see that John had lingered to speak to Mycroft. "John's sure going to have a lot to get used to."

"Yes, but he'll learn to cope. You've done rather well."

"True enough. Of course, I'm still learning. That's what makes it so much fun."

Sherlock looked at her and smiled. When John caught up with them, he found that Sherlock's dark mood had vanished, as though it had never occurred. "So, dim sum?" He thought it better not to mention Mycroft at the present moment. He had a feeling he would turn up again, but for right now, he would let it lie.

"Mmm. I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can."

"It's always more fun when he gets it wrong." said Brenna.

Sherlock shot Brenna a look, as if to say, _'Don't make him think that I ever get anything wrong.'_

"You were shot, though." Said Sherlock, as if to take John's mind off contemplating the idea that he could be wrong.

"What?"

"In Afghanistan, there was an actual wound."

"Oh yeah, shoulder."

"Thought so. Left?"

"You guessed?"

"I never guess." Sherlock's eyes were still bright, and a mysterious smile was growing on his face.

"Why are you smiling?" asked John.

"Moriarty." Said Sherlock, saying the name with an odd kind of relish.

"What's Moriarty?"

"Absolutely no idea."

Brenna was just as mystified as John. It did not occur to her until later that maybe she should have inquired a bit deeper into the identity of Moriarty. She could have no idea that one name would forever change her life.

But she didn't think of that. Indeed, she felt far lighter and happier than she had in a long time. She could tell by the way that Sherlock and John were kacting that a firm friendship was already developing. Something told her that it was merely the beginning of what promised to be a beautiful partnership. It seemed that life from here on out was going to be good.

* * *

c

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the end of the first story in this series. It is a bit short, but this story was primarily for the purposes of introducing the main idea and characters. That being said, I might make a few tweaks to the style of what the future stories will be like. I hope that everyone enjoyed A Thief's Life. Please read and review to tell me what you think.
> 
> The next installment, A Thief's Mystery, should be posted in the next few days. It obviously is going to take place during The Blind Banker, but will also feature the flashback of Sherlock and Brenna's first meeting, and the mystery that they have to solve, a combination of the ACD stories The Blue Carbuncle and the Beryle Coronet.
> 
> Again, thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please drop a review.


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